Do not, I ask, sigh wistfully, “Another perfect summer gone.” With every bold leaf shaking free A perfect autumn carries on.
The yellow corn is stacks of gold; The mists across the fields unfold, Unveiling friendly blue and white Warm skies that turn to frost at night. The nuts high on the hickory tree To grass-folk spell catastrophe, But children in the heaped-up leaves Laugh in the spell the season weaves.
So let the perfect summer be To all things past, a paragon; With every bold leaf shaking free A perfect autumn carries on.