OCTOBER.
THE year grows old; Summer's wild crown of roses
Has fallen and faded in the woodland ways;
On all the earth a tranquil light reposes,
Through the still, dreamy days.
The dew lies heavy in the early morn,
On grass and mosses sparkling crystal-fair;
And shining threads of gossamer are borne
Floating upon the air,
Across the leaf-strewn lanes, from bough to bough,
Like tissues woven in a fairy loom;
And crimson berried bryony garlands glow
Through the leaf-tangled gloom.
The woods are still, but for the sudden fall
Of cupless acorns dropping to the ground,
Or rabbit plunging through the fern-stems tall,
Half startled by the sound.
And from the garden-lawn comes, soft and clear,
The robin's warble from the leafless spray,
The low, sweet Angelus of the dying year,
Passing In light away.
Selected.
