By the class poet, Lynne, September 2002
The crimson days of autumn etched merrily in gold,
Unfold silently before me to watch the world turn cold.
There's frost upon the meadow where the clover used to bloom,
And the scent of clove and cinnamon permeates every room.
There's fresh cider to buy and a fresh-baked apple pie.
It's no wonder hearts beat faster when autumn fills the sky!
It's a time to pick the apples, a time to harvest corn.
It's a time to gather walnuts early in the morn.
It's a time we should be thankful for all this goodness and grace.
When the crimson days of autumn puts on her gold face.
The crimson days of autumn etched merrily in gold,
Unfold silently before me to watch the world turn cold.
There's frost upon the meadow where the clover used to bloom,
And the scent of clove and cinnamon permeates every room.
There's fresh cider to buy and a fresh-baked apple pie.
It's no wonder hearts beat faster when autumn fills the sky!
It's a time to pick the apples, a time to harvest corn.
It's a time to gather walnuts early in the morn.
It's a time we should be thankful for all this goodness and grace.
When the crimson days of autumn puts on her gold face.
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