Poetry Archives

There ain’t no leaves to turn to gold—
There ain’t a tree in sight—
In other ways the herder’s told
October’s come, all right.

Jest like ten thousand souls, all lost,
The wind howls—ain’t it nice!—
The water-hole is froze acrost
With crinkly-crackly ice.

The sheep bed down before the sun
Has hit the rim of hills;
The prairie wolves are on the run
To make their nightly kills.

But kyards are sayin’, “Solitaire,”
The bacon’s fryin’ prime;
The old sheep wagon’s free from care
In late October time.