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Alva N. Turner
He looked at the wooded hills Repainted by the magic of the frost-brush, Till his soul sensed the long silence of nonentity. And he said: “Death is a beautiful color.” He left the concrete walk To let his feet feel the yellow crispness Of the newly fallen leaves From the long line of the maple shade. And he said: “The new-fallen leaf, Loved by the vagrancy of the autumn wind, Is the sere grief of the green spring.” His vision dreamed along the valley Of devious, ranging hills, Where stout shocks of fodder-corn Were bursting into visible song, And crowding pumpkins Shouted in a chorus of lilting gold; While the heavy listening orchard, Thronging the amphitheatre Of a happy old hillside, Encored the singers with red applause— Till he was conscious of the fullness of the autumn, And the emptiness of the autumn wind.