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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




NEW ENGLAND IN THE FALL

Thereís a rim of brush and swamp grass
Just a bit out from the bank.
It filters out the rising sun
And the mountainís graceful flank.
Itís too big to call a pond,
And itís too small to call a lake,
And itís 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.
Iíve been across this country, Lord,
And Iíve not seen it all,
But nothing beats New England in the fall.

If the geese can see my campfire
They donít pay it any mind;
They sound as though theyíre near me
But theyíre pretty hard to find.
Itís still a trifle early
For to migrate through the sky,
But anyone with woods sense knows
That winterís 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.
Iíve been across this country, Lord,
And Iíve 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 womanís 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.
Iíve been across this country, Lord,
And Iíve not seen it all,
But nothing beats New England in the fall.

North Hudson, New York, 1976



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