My lovely 91-year-old grandmother recently fell, breaking her hip and landing in the hospital for surgery and then rehab. Looking out of her upstate NY hospital room window this week, she watched as the leaves began to change colors and float from the trees. She recalled a poem she adored from the 6th grade. She remembered just the first line, “There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood.” I learned then that she and I both share a love of the fall. We googled it and the beautiful words below, from a 16th century poet, are what we found.
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.A Vagabond Song
by Bliss Carman