Goes quiet Autumn, lamp in hand,
About the apple-colored land,

To light in every apple-tree

They glimmer in the orchard shade
Like fiery opals set in jade,—

Crimson and russet and raw gold,
Yellow and green and scarlet old.

In crowded street or hot lagoon,
Or under the strange austral moon,—

When the homesickness comes to me

The running dikes, the brimming tide,
And the dark firs on Fundy side,

In dreams once more I shall behold,
Like signal lights, those globes of gold