It's dinnertime in early fall.
I hear the click of the garden gate,
Which means I need not ring or call,
But only go to the porch and wait.
The fabric of the countryside
Is flung out proudly, fold on fold,
All in a pattern, opening wide,
Of russet, forest-green, and gold.
Our flowing fields are interlaced,
With sun and shadow overspread.
Through fences, regularly spaced,
The river winds her silver thread.
And while I stand here at the door,
How loving is the sight of you,
Who bring your laughter home once more
And children in their denim blue.
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