Chestnut Stands

Oh, every fall the chestnut men

Are out by park and street,

Frosty mornings, sunny noons,

And nights of stars or sleet.

Little stands at every curb,

Charcoal fires that glow,

And like a spell that sharp, strange smell

Wherever feet may go.

Smoky bitterness of leaves

Burning who knows where?

Spicy scent of frost-nipped fruit

Tingling on the air.

Town-dull folk might never guess,

Or country hearts recall,

If chestnut men forgot to come

To cities in the fall.