Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy
Dear son

Lo, 'tis autumn
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the
Moderate wind
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the
Trellis'd vines
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately
Buzzing?)

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain
And with wondrous clouds
Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm
Prospers well

Down in the fields all prospers well
But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's
Call
And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right
Away

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps
Trembling
She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap