This Autumn is a Gypsy maid Who stole an April moon To dress herself in flame-chiffon Beside a blue lagoon. She gathers colors recklessly To tangle in her hair, And spills her perfume, apple ripe, Upon the cool, crisp air. She dances through gold-wooded hills Half wild, a-gleam and gay, But rain will brew a witch's curse And turn her garments gray! |