Merry Autumn by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I love Autumn and I love this poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906).

Merry Autumn 
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It's all a farce,—these tales they tell 
    About the breezes sighing, 
And moans astir o'er field and dell, 
    Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,— 
    I care not who first taught 'em; 
There's nothing known to beast or bird 
    To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway 
    With countenance distressing, 
You'll note the more of black and gray 
    Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around; 
    The sky is blue and mellow; 
And e'en the grasses turn the ground 
    From modest green to yellow.

The seed burs all with laughter crack 
    On featherweed and jimson; 
And leaves that should be dressed in black 
    Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by; 
    A singing bird comes after; 
And Nature, all from earth to sky, 
    Is bubbling o'er with laughter.

The ripples wimple on the rills, 
    Like sparkling little lasses; 
The sunlight runs along the hills, 
    And laughs among the grasses.

The earth is just so full of fun 
    It really can't contain it; 
And streams of mirth so freely run 
    The heavens seem to rain it.

Don't talk to me of solemn days 
    In autumn's time of splendor, 
Because the sun shows fewer rays, 
    And these grow slant and slender.
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Why, it's the climax of the year,— 
    The highest time of living!— 
Till naturally its bursting cheer 
    Just melts into thanksgiving.