The rich brown gold of the hilltops is
Touched by the crimson sun
A touch of beauty and reverence
Which alone man’s soul can stun.

All over the golden landscape
The dull green leaves of the oak tree
The pale green leaves of the elm
Have fallen dead on the wayside
To cushion the road for men.

As the evening shadows lengthen
The hills turn a purplish pink,
The wee, wee stars
Of the heavenly host
Sunset and evening link.

From out of the dull russet landscape
The color fades and dies
But no less is the spirit of beauty
Engrossed on the soul of lives.