Merry Autumn
It's all a farce,—these tales they tellAbout the breezes sighing,And moans astir o'er field and dell,Because the year is dying.
Such principles are most absurd,—I care not who first taught 'em;There's nothing known to beast or birdTo make a solemn autumn.
In solemn times, when grief holds swayWith countenance distressing,You'll note the more of black and grayWill then be used in dressing.
Now purple tints are all around;The sky is blue and mellow;And e'en the grasses turn the groundFrom modest green to yellow.
The seed burs all with laughter crackOn featherweed and jimson;And leaves that should be dressed in blackAre all decked out in crimson.
A butterfly goes winging by;A singing bird comes after;And Nature, all from earth to sky,Is bubbling o'er with laughter.
The ripples wimple on the rills,Like sparkling little lasses;The sunlight runs along the hills,And laughs among the grasses.
The earth is just so full of funIt really can't contain it;And streams of mirth so freely runThe heavens seem to rain it.
Don't talk to me of solemn daysIn autumn's time of splendor,Because the sun shows fewer rays,And these grow slant and slender.
Why, it's the climax of the year,—The highest time of living!—Till naturally its bursting cheerJust melts into thanksgiving.
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