OCTOBER.
41
OCTOBER.
T is no joy to me to sit On dreamy summer eves,
When silently the timid moon
Kisses the sleeping leaves,
And all things through the fair hushed earth
Love, rest—but nothing grieves.
Better I like old Autumn
With his hair tossed to and fro,
Firm striding o'er the stubble fields
When the equinoctials blow.
When shrinkingly the sun creeps up
Through misty mornings cold,
And Robin on the orchard hedge
Sings cheerily and bold,
While heavily the frosted plum
Drops downwards on the mould;—
And as he passes, Autumn
Into earth's lap does throw
Brown apples gay in a game of play,
As the equinoctials blow.
Through misty mornings cold,
And Robin on the orchard hedge
Sings cheerily and bold,
While heavily the frosted plum
Drops downwards on the mould;—
And as he passes, Autumn
Into earth's lap does throw
Brown apples gay in a game of play,
As the equinoctials blow.
When the spent year its carol sinks
Into a humble psalm,
Into a humble psalm,
