A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/October (Émile Augier)
OCTOBER.
Since Cybelè has ended her loves for the year,
Since, like the lone widow, until May, of the sun,
Stripping her hymeneal robe,—ah! once so dear!
Leaf by leaf,—discrowned, sad, cold, and in fear,
She sinks down to sleep till her mourning be done;
Since over the vine-plots there has stolen a change,
And the grapes in the presses have run red as of old,
For the cares of the winter since peasants arrange,
And all husbandry-tools are laid by in the grange,
And cold mornings are closer to evenings as cold:
Let us leave the fields moistened, and the vineyards forlorn,
And at Paris regain our dear smoke-painted home;—
The cool shades of their thousand attractions are shorn,
The light garments half-open displease, and we scorn
To stir early from bed, on the hill-sides to roam.
What now we require most is a closed room,—repose,
A faggot of broom made, or a fire made of logs,
Beer foaming, and a pipe that contentment bestows,—
And two friends to converse with as the night deeper grows,
With the heart overflowing, and the feet on the dogs.