Art thou the topmost apple The gathers could reach, Reddening on the bough? Shall I not take thee?

Thy coming is companionedBy presences of bliss;The rivers and the little leavesAll know how good it is.

I took a day to search for God, And found Him not; but as I trod, By rocky ledge, through woods untamed, Just where one scarlet lily flamed, I saw His footprint in the sod

When promise and patience are wearing thin, When endurance is almost driven in, When our angels stand in a waiting hush, Remember the Marne and Ferdinand Foch.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry, Of bugles going by.