If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all things laid,
The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,
When scarlet has reached its breathless moment,
and gold the hush of its glory now,
That were a mightier craft than Titian’s, the heart to lift and the head to bow.

I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness, too,-
The touch of wonder transcending science,
the solace escaping from line and hue;
I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth of ours,
Forever yearning through boundless beauty
to exalt the spirit with all her powers.

See where it lies by the lake this morning,
our autumn hillside of hardwood trees,
A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.
A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion and dun,
Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue of the sun!

The crown of the ash is tinged with purple,
the hickory leaves are Etruscan gold,
And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for a signal bold;
The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass
In festal pomp and victorious pride,
when the vision of spring is brought to pass.

Down from the line of the shore’s deep shadows another and softer picture lies,
As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor dream of paradise,-
Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and luring the mind
With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap are left behind.

So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and endless joy,
Asleep to the moment’s fine elation, dull to the day’s divine employ,
Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,
Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides-our privilege here.

Dare we dispel a single transport,
neglect the worth that is here and now,
Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance
in the by and-by somewhere, somehow?
I heard the wind on the hillside whisper,
“They ill prepare for a journey hence
Who waste the senses and starve
the spirit in a world all made for spirit and sense.

“Is the full stream fed from a stifled source,
or the ripe fruit filled from a blighted flower?
Are not the brook and the blossom greatened
through many a busy beatified hour?
Not in the shadow but in the substance,
plastic and potent at our command,
Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart;
this is the kingdom of heaven at hand.”

So I will pass through the lovely world,
and partake of beauty to feed my soul.
With earth my domain and growth my portion,
how should I sue for a further dole?
In the lift I feel of immortal rapture,
in the flying glimpse I gain of truth,
Released is the passion that sought perfection,
assuaged the ardor of dreamful youth.

The patience of time shall teach me courage,
the strength of the sun shall lend me poise.
I would give thanks for the autumn glory,
for the teaching of earth and all her joys.
Her fine fruition shall well suffice me;
the air shall stir in my veins like wine;
While the moment waits and the wonder deepens,
my life shall merge with the life divine.
– William Bliss Carman