The
skies are full of leaden gray,
The
fishing lines are put away;
The
poles are stored in the shed,
The
fall has come, an’ summer’s dead.
The
hunter bangs out in the woods,
An’
echoes wake the solitudes;
The
ducks they want a chance to light,
But
do not dare to till comes the night.
The
partridge drums out his alarm,
And
tries to hide his head from harm;
The
wily farmer does the same
For
fear he’ll be mistook for game.
An’
while these things are in the air
The
only safe place, I declare,
Is
in the city’s bang and throb,
A-tending
to your daily job.
Oct.
21, ‘09
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