No clouds are in the morning sky,
The vapors hug the stream,
Who says that life and love can die
In all this northern gleam?

At every turn the maples burn,
The quail is whistling free,
The partridge whirs, and the frosted burrs
Are dropping for you and me.

Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!
Hilly ho!
In the clear October morning.

Along our paths the woods are bold,
And glow with ripe desire;
The yellow chesnut showers its gold,
The sumachs spread their fire;

The breezes feel as crisp as steel,
The buckwheat tops are red:
Then down the lane, Love, scurry again,
And over the stubble tread?

Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!
Hilly ho!
In the clear October morning.

a poem that suits the day, it was written about the time the farm house was being built, by Edmund Clarence Stedman