It’s strange about autumn. I’ve seen it before,

But each time there’s more to see, more and more.

More redness in leaves, more brown and more gold,

More splendor in coloring than maples can hold,

More purple in haze on faraway hills,

More sparkle and music in runaway rills,

More fragrance from orchards, more birds on the wing

With summer-sweet memories that each one must sing

Before it goes winging on a long southward way,

Leaving the autumn so friendly and gay.

It’s strange about autumn—how each one holds more,

How each seems more lovely than ever before.