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The Autumn Song
01:51
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The wind brushes the tousled hair
from the fair brow of morning,
the frost yet adorning her eyes;
embraces the evergreen boughs,
sets them rustling with laughter
that still chases after the skies.
We wake to low, gray clouds above
filled with late-autumn hunger.
The spell we are under betrays
that selfsame cool, clean, empty longing
to up and fly far away
on wings made of maple leaves.
The children of the treetops break away,
dancing ever on, on wind and song
piped by the pied piper;
and we here on the ground, watching amazed,
ask if we're alone in windswept dreams...
and do the leaves dream of being lighter?
The wind brushes the tousled hair
from the fair brow of morning,
the frost yet adorning her eyes;
embraces the evergreen boughs,
sets them rustling with laughter
that still chases after the skies.
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The Euphonage Illinois
EU·PHON·AGE:
noun: \yü-fə-nij\
1 an institution for the care and keeping of little songlings
2 the state of being euphonious
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