AUTUMN SONG.
Sing me a song of the autumn clear,With the mellow days and the ruddy eves;Sing me a song of the ending year,With the piled-up sheaves.Sing me a song of the apple bowers,Of the great grapes the vine-field yields,Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers,And the rich hop-fields.Sing me a song of the fallen mast,Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds,Of the purple beets left lastIn the garden beds.Sing me a song of the toiling bees,Of the long flight and the honey won,Of the white hives under the apple-trees,In the hazy sun.Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage,Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray,Where goes my love ArmitagePulling the summer savory.Sing me a song of the red deep,The long glow the sun leaves,Of the swallows taking a last sleepIn the barn eaves.
Sing me a song of the autumn clear,With the mellow days and the ruddy eves;Sing me a song of the ending year,With the piled-up sheaves.Sing me a song of the apple bowers,Of the great grapes the vine-field yields,Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers,And the rich hop-fields.Sing me a song of the fallen mast,Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds,Of the purple beets left lastIn the garden beds.Sing me a song of the toiling bees,Of the long flight and the honey won,Of the white hives under the apple-trees,In the hazy sun.Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage,Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray,Where goes my love ArmitagePulling the summer savory.Sing me a song of the red deep,The long glow the sun leaves,Of the swallows taking a last sleepIn the barn eaves.
Sing me a song of the autumn clear,With the mellow days and the ruddy eves;Sing me a song of the ending year,With the piled-up sheaves.
Sing me a song of the autumn clear,
With the mellow days and the ruddy eves;
Sing me a song of the ending year,
With the piled-up sheaves.
Sing me a song of the apple bowers,Of the great grapes the vine-field yields,Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers,And the rich hop-fields.
Sing me a song of the apple bowers,
Of the great grapes the vine-field yields,
Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers,
And the rich hop-fields.
Sing me a song of the fallen mast,Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds,Of the purple beets left lastIn the garden beds.
Sing me a song of the fallen mast,
Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds,
Of the purple beets left last
In the garden beds.
Sing me a song of the toiling bees,Of the long flight and the honey won,Of the white hives under the apple-trees,In the hazy sun.
Sing me a song of the toiling bees,
Of the long flight and the honey won,
Of the white hives under the apple-trees,
In the hazy sun.
Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage,Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray,Where goes my love ArmitagePulling the summer savory.
Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage,
Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray,
Where goes my love Armitage
Pulling the summer savory.
Sing me a song of the red deep,The long glow the sun leaves,Of the swallows taking a last sleepIn the barn eaves.
Sing me a song of the red deep,
The long glow the sun leaves,
Of the swallows taking a last sleep
In the barn eaves.