And in the day the golden sun hath wrought
True wonders; and the winds of morn and even
Have touched with magic breath the changing leaves.
And now, as wanders the dilating eye
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far,
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp
Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight!
Here, where the poplar rears its yellow crest,
A golden glory; yonder, where the oak
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad
The dogwood spreads beneath, and, fringing all,
The sumac blushes to the ground, a flood
Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms
The gnarlëd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red.
Out in the woods of autumn!
I have cast Aside the shackles of the town,
that vex The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself…
Here where seclusion looks out on a scene
Of matchless beauty, I will pause awhile,
And on this bank with varied mosses crowned
Gently recline. Beneath me, silver-bright,
Glide the calm waters, with a plaintive moan…
__William Davis Gallagher, Autumn in the West