O'er Folded Blooms On Swirls Of Musk,

Long About Knee-deep In June, 'bout The Time Strewberries Melts On The Vine.

I Don't Know How To Tell It--but Ef Such A Thing Could Be As The Angels Wantin' Boardin', And They'd Call Around On Me-- I'd Want To 'ccommodate 'em--all The Whole-in-durin' Flock-- When The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.

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.

Think Of Him Still As The Same, I Say, He Is Not Dead, He Is Just - Away.

He Is Not Dead, He Is Just - Away.