The Sooner State has something of its own -
A wind that crackles dryly as a bone,
Sweeping up the damage fall's begun,
Ripping summer's crazy-quilt for fun,
And then collecting all the scraps again
To hang on fences or festoon a lane -
A wind with gnarled hands and careless touch
Who whoops aloud for joy and knows too much
About the ills of life, the dusty side:
A wind who will not stop his swinging stride
To tell his hobo tales, but bellows out,
So every maid must hear his bawdy shout.
The velvet lawn of Carryl Hall
Had realized that it was fall
And cast aside its summer pose
Of casual green, for autumn clothes
In russet, ochre, reds untold,
In chestnut brown and tawny gold.
The trees engaged in brittle talk,
And burnt leaves scampered up the walk -
For all the world like clacking dames
Whose children clattered at their games
And let their whooping friend, the wind,
Come sweeping at them from behind
To scoop them up, a yellow hill,
Or make them march a crisp quadrille.
The sun had drowned its orange fire
Within a liquid carmine spire
That spilled across the western sky
Like some gigantic pot of dye;
And higher up were feathered strings
The color of flamingo wings.
The coeds, too, had understood,
And dressed as brightly as they could
And gayly decked was Carryl Hall
In honor of the Freshman Ball:
Across the terrace tartans danced,
And on the steps a plaid romanced;
One dressed in purple, one in rose,
And one wore crimson to her toes.
A swinging yellow polka-dot,
A skirt the color of apricot.
A little coat of danger-red,
A gown tattooed with gilded thread -.