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.