Goes quiet Autumn, lamp in hand,
About the apple-coloured 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 on me

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

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