No painter has the coloring to mock

Talking with home, I learned that they've had frost, the colors are gorgeous, and the cornfield is beautiful. This poem and the link to the right to "Blue Ridge photography" are my fall colors this year. The photos make me long for those high, green (and now red, yellow, and orange) hills.

"When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
...
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock."

When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They’s something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here --
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

~James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

The entire poem is found here.