I hear a song which colors Autumn.
It sings Creation's symphony,
Of days long past, or still to be,
Of what the Earth is to become.
It moves the air and paints the skies.
The waves crash with crescendos,
And with its trumpets, wind does blow.
The cellos play. The eagle flies.
With violins the flowers bloom.
With piccolos the sparrow calls.
Like cotton snow, the music falls.
The drums begin. The mountains loom.
And when it seems the song will end,
In Winter's white and icy chill,
When all the world is calm and still,
The trumpets will begin again.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
I hear a song which colors Autumn.
It sings Creation's symphony,
Of days long past, or still to be,
Of what the Earth is to become.
It moves the air and paints the skies.
The waves crash with crescendos,
And with its trumpets, wind does blow.
The cellos play. The eagle flies.
With violins the flowers bloom.
With piccolos the sparrow calls.
Like cotton snow, the music falls.
The drums begin. The mountains loom.
And when it seems the song will end,
In Winter's white and icy chill,
When all the world is calm and still,
The trumpets will begin again.
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