I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

Who longest wait of all surely wins.