The flaming trees of purple, red, and gold

Are interspersed now here, now there with green;

Small furry creatures, large, and in-between

Prepare in their own ways for coming cold.

Two harvests not complete—red, orange, bold—

Make drab the stacks of graying cornstalks seen

Spaced evenly in fields. The woodpile, lean

Now, will have logs fresh heaped ’gainst the old.

The glories of this season, fall—

Delights of eye and nose and ear,

Beauty wild and beauty tame—

Result not from man’s reason. All

The joys we feel, smell, taste, see, hear

From loving Heav’nly Father came.

Illustrated by Dick Brown