Red and Yellow and Hills

Often, you know, when trains in autumn,

Pass near hills full of dead leaves, gone long from trees,

The trains move the leaves, and winds help the trains.

By hills in autumn, in smoky autumn, smoking trains go,

Fast; and leaves drift listlessly down hills near speedy, dashing trains.

The hills are red and yellow; and the speedy, dashing train is black; and white smoke comes from the train; and the train whistles wildly, piercingly, and leaves, dead, autumn leaves drift listlessly down old hills.

Cry, train, cry, leaves, cry, hills.

Train, dash wildly.

Leaves, die.

Autumn’s here and the hills are.

Autumn’s here, and haze and smoke in sky, and sultrily, faintly red sun goings-down in autumn.

Smoke’s in the sky, quietly, lazily.

Trains and trains go by, whistling wildly, piercingly.

Dead leaves drift along lazily.

Autumn’s here and quiet, and red and yellow and hills.