  Sing me a song of the autumn clear, With the mellow days and the ruddy eves; Sing me a song of the ending year, With the piled-up sheaves. Sing me a song of the apple bowers, Of the great grapes the vine-field yields, Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers, And the rich hop-fields. Sing me a song of the fallen mast, Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds, Of the purple beets left last In the garden beds. Sing me a song of the toiling bees, Of the long flight and the honey won, Of the white hives under the apple-trees, In the hazy sun. Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray, Where goes my love Armitage Pulling the summer savory. Sing me a song of the red deep, The long glow the sun leaves, Of the swallows taking a last sleep In the barn eaves.
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