Song of the Open

There’s a whisper in the orchard, there’s a laughter in the breeze, There’s a catbird’s chuckle in the maple tree; And the wind has come from westward, scattering the maple-keys. Oh, it’s time to break your fetters and be free! All the rain’s astir and calling, all the grass is wet and brown, All the world waits just beyond the window-pane; And the day is dull and dripping in the gray, gas-lighted town, But the country’s fresh and clean with fall again. Oh, it’s out along the prairie with the cool rain in your face, And it’s out along the river flowing free, And it’s out across the hill-tops in a flying-footed race With just your heart to bear you company. There’s the prairie curving softly with its golden blooms aglow, And the purple splashes on its ripened flanks; And the idle grassy hollows where the brilliant salvias grow, And the sturdy cat-tails marshal out their ranks. Ah, the scarlet of the orchards and the saffron of the fields! Ah, the purple of the vineyards in the sun! Ah, the river in the sunlight, flashing silver as a shield For a moment—and your Indian summer’s done. So it’s home along the prairie with the north wind blowing chill, And it’s home across the meadow’s heaving sea, And it’s home with winter shouting just beyond the farthest hill, But yet the road is open and is free.