There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood— br Touch of manner, hint of mood; br And my heart is like a rhyme, br With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. br br The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry br Of bugles going by. br And my lonely spirit thrills br To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. br br There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; br We must rise and follow her, br When from every hill of flame br She calls and calls each vagabond by name.