Be clothed within an autumn mist
Of morning’s coolest dew
Look upward to the painted sky
Of season’s rusty hue
Step lightly midst the crunching leaves
That blow ‘pon hearty breeze
Then hunker down and lay their bed
Neath winters snowy freeze.
Be crisp the night with snap of chill
And short of day be warm
The sunset mirrors the changing leaves
As stars of night do form
The fields be tanned with burdened straw
Of summer’s life fulfilled
And autumn’s flowers, days be kissed
With season’s colors willed.
The little house is not too small To shelter friends who come to call. Though low the roof and small its space It holds the Lord's abounding grace, And every simple room may be Endowed with happy memory.
The little house, severely plain, A wealth of beauty may contain. Within it those who dwell may find High faith which makes for peace of mind, And that sweet understanding which Can make the poorest cottage rich.
The little house can hold all things From which the soul's contentment springs. 'Tis not too small for love to grow, For all the joys that mortals know, For mirth and song and that delight Which make the humblest dwelling bright.
"September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours,
But in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn.
The cricket chirps in the noontide, making the most of what remains of his brief life.
The bumblebee is busy among the clover blossoms of the aftermath,
And their shrill and dreamy hum hold the outdoor world above the voices of the song birds,
Now silent or departed."-