***Running fast in the middle of the corn,
the little maid held a red maple leaf
as she began to sing:
,, For golden Autumn I do not morn,
but for the blackberries that perished of grief,,***
***Her hair of marigold in the wind swung
and her cheeks were bright and rosy
when she once again in her silvery voice sung :
,, Oh October, month of gold,
how beautiful sights you give me to see ,,***
***Alas, the sun soon started to set behind the hill
and made her smile to slowly fade
when, from the woodland, the wind gave her a chill:
,, Little maid, leave October's canvas of art
and go home before nightfall freezes your fragile little heart ,,***
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
***Running fast in the middle of the corn,
the little maid held a red maple leaf
as she began to sing:
,, For golden Autumn I do not morn,
but for the blackberries that perished of grief,,***
***Her hair of marigold in the wind swung
and her cheeks were bright and rosy
when she once again in her silvery voice sung :
,, Oh October, month of gold,
how beautiful sights you give me to see ,,***
***Alas, the sun soon started to set behind the hill
and made her smile to slowly fade
when, from the woodland, the wind gave her a chill:
,, Little maid, leave October's canvas of art
and go home before nightfall freezes your fragile little heart ,,***
