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Poem	There's a gypsy wind across the harvest land, Let us fare forth with it lightly hand in hand; Where cloud shadows blow across the sunwarm waste, And the first red leaves are falling let us haste, For the waning days are lavish of their stores, And the joy of life is with us out o' doors! Let us roam along the ways of golden rod Over uplands where the spicy bracken nod, Through the wildwood where the hemlock branches croon Their rune-chant of elder days across the noon, For the mellow air its pungency outpours, And the glory of the year is out o' doors! There's a great gray sea beyond us calling far, There's a blue tide curling o'er the harbor bar; Ho, the breeze that smites us saltly on the lips Whistles gaily in the sails of outbound ships; Let us send our thoughts with them to fabled shores, For the pilgrim mood is on us out o' doors! Lo! the world's rejoicing in each spirit thrills, Strength and gladness are to us upon the hills; We are one with crimson bough and ancient sea, Holding all the joy of autumn hours in fee, Hope within us like a questing bird upsoars, And there's room for song and laughter out o' doors.
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