It’s fall now, but to me, it isn’t really autumn until the first frosty morning, when the floor boards are like ice to my bare feet and a glaze of white frost tips each blade of grass on the yard. Below is my personal favorite autumn poem, A Vagabond Song, by William Bliss Carman. It's so beautifully visual. A Vagabond Song THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my
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