Clear October Morning.
Created by Mary Ann one year ago
No clouds are in the morning sky,
The vapors hug the stream,
Who says that life and hope can die
In all this northern gleam?
At every turn the maples burn,
The quail is whistling free,
The patridge whirs, and the frosted burs
Are dropping for you and me.
In the clear October morning.
By Edmund Clarence Stedman.