Classic Poem

Now autumn beats like music at my breast,
The color down the land is like a cry,
The winding roadways will not let me rest,
And distance is a call against the sky.
The haze runs shouting out across the hills,
Where autumn follows with its smoke and flame,
Upon a day like this the landscape spills
A glory that has never had a name.

Who has not seen a Texas field grown old
With clinging cotton — waiting some dark hand —
Who has not seen long miles of Texas gold
Where the flowers of a late sun light the land —
Or seen blurred fields — where purple thistles glow —
Has missed too much of beauty — this I know.