A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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NEW ENGLAND IN THE FALL
There’s a rim of brush and swamp grass
Just a bit out from the bank.
It filters out the rising sun
And the mountain’s graceful flank.
It’s too big to call a pond,
And it’s too small to call a lake,
And it’s hard to sleep at night
For the sounds the creatures make.
And the frost is on the mountain tops
That stand so brave and tall;
And the leaves turn fire colors,
And the dry pine needles fall.
I’ve been across this country, Lord,
And I’ve not seen it all,
But nothing beats New England in the fall.
If the geese can see my campfire
They don’t pay it any mind;
They sound as though they’re near me
But they’re pretty hard to find.
It’s still a trifle early
For to migrate through the sky,
But anyone with woods sense knows
That winter’s drawing nigh
When the frost is on the mountain tops
That stand so brave and tall;
And the leaves turn fire colors,
And the dry pine needles fall.
I’ve been across this country, Lord,
And I’ve not seen it all,
But nothing beats New England in the fall.
When winter winds blow cold and stern
They rise and take the wing;
But I am blessed with their return
As soon as it is spring.
So has it always been,
So shall it ever be,
And that degree of constancy
No woman’s granted me.
And the frost is on the mountain tops
That stand so brave and tall;
And the leaves turn fire colors,
And the dry pine needles fall.
I’ve been across this country, Lord,
And I’ve not seen it all,
But nothing beats New England in the fall.
North Hudson, New York, 1976
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