---

Paul Laurence Dunbar - Merry Autumn
Work rating: Low

IT`s all a farce, — these tales they tell
About 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 bird
To make a solemn autumn.
In solemn times, when grief holds sway
With countenance distressing,
You`ll note the more of black and gray
Will then be used in dressing.
Now purple tints are all around;
The sky is blue and mellow;
And e`en the grasses turn the ground
From modest green to yellow.
The seed burrs all with laughter crack
On featherweed and jimson;
And leaves that should be dressed in black
Are 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 fun
It really can`t contain it;
And streams of mirth so freely run
The heavens seem to rain it.
Don`t talk to me of solemn days
In 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 cheer
Just melts into thanksgiving.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.