From The Times Dispatch, October 1, 1914. By George West Diehl.
The breath of autumn is sighing
Through the trees,
Whispering softly, “Summer’s dying,”
To the leaves.
And they beneath his frosty kiss
Are blushing in their happy bliss,
In the breeze.
Now in the woodland depths is heard
Foxes’ tread,
And the cry of a winging bird
Overhead.
A blue haze o’er the landscape lies
Stretching to where the mountains rise
Far ahead.
Beneath the leaning trees, silver gray
Sycamore.
The brooklet murmurs on its way
By green shore.
High above in the cloudless sky
Legions of leaves go whirling by
In full corps.