That fall has painted brightly on the trees

No pigment mixed by alchemy of old

Could ever match their shades of yellow gold.

Their scarlet reds are such that, were he asked,

No artist ever known could meet the task

Of blending crimson dyes with muted tone

To match the shades the forest calls its own.

No artist’s eye has ever yet been born,

While looking at the trees fall has adorned,

Could from a palette filled with every hue

Stipple colors to match what God can do.

Pure pixie dust could never simulate

The movement of their stately minuet,

With which they dance in gentle autumn’s breeze

Like sailboats racing through the tropic seas.

When winter snowflakes fall in playful mirth

To tuck-in all the leaves that fell to earth

I find my memory still retains a measure

Of all the colors rare that gave me pleasure.