God takes his palette, dips his brush, And with a gesture bold, Across the hillside, green and lush, Paints a swathe of gold.
He loads his brush again, and paints Bronze patches here and there. Adds deep red hues and copper tints That catch the sun’s bright glare.
He seems to set the trees afire With colours rich and clear. And with each leaf he lights a flare To mark the Fall of the year.