With their heads adorned in splendor And dark shadows at their feet, With their slopes a mottled pattern In rich red and gold replete, As they roll away in glory I must answer to their call, -- The hills of old Ohio in the fall. When the frost has burned their summits, Set on fire their lambent crests, And the sunsets of October Seep through haze across their breasts, -- Naught more lovely is created By the maker of it all Than the hills of old Ohio in the fall. |