Virginia autumn, when leaves regale
with their moving, wordless tale;
A language of signs, each painted leaf
like golden hands gone pale.
What do they say, those flustered leaves,
filling both hill and dale?
Perhaps they warn of winter’s chill
or its biting, frosty veil;
Or maybe they sorrow the loss of time
and run to cloak the trail.
with their moving, wordless tale;
A language of signs, each painted leaf
like golden hands gone pale.
What do they say, those flustered leaves,
filling both hill and dale?
Perhaps they warn of winter’s chill
or its biting, frosty veil;
Or maybe they sorrow the loss of time
and run to cloak the trail.