Beyond the maple trees,
And beyond the meadow gold,
There awaits for me a holy place,
Where I'll meet my autumn old.
It's just across the farmer's stream,
There water flows clear and cold,
A place where all my yearning goes,
Those fields of barley old.
Not far past the distant hills,
Quite near the shepherd's fold,
A valley there is tucked away,
Bathed in daylight turning old.
There in the smoke of aging fires,
In the mist of ventures bold,
In my deep September, I will find
My youth becoming old,
yes, my youth becoming old.