OCTOBER.
‘——To the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering the whole spirit.’
Coleridge.
Summer has pleasant seasons, and the spring
Comes gaily on the senses; and ’tis sweet
To know the places of the shadiest trees,
And hunt the scented violet; but when these
Have mellowed into autumn, and the flowers
Sleep in their fragrant places, ’tis to me
A pleasanter and purer time to give
Close thought to its forgetfulness, and stray
By the serenest wave and greenest grass.
October had come in and I went forth
To breathe an air like June, and feel the nerve
Of the elastic temper which a frost
Gives to the sunshine. The transparent veil
Of morning’s exhalations had rolled up
Into white, silvery streakings, and the sky
Looked perfectly and deeply blue between,
Like a fixed element, and birds went up
And sang invisibly, the heavenly air
Wooed them above the earth so temptingly.
I never knew the streams so musical,
Or saw them half so clear; and for the leaves—
The maples were just turned, and brighter trees
Were never by the forest pencil drawn.
The hill-sides seemed to slumber, the warm sun
Shone on their slopes so softly; and I knew
One that was carpeted with moss, and leant
To the warm south so fitly, you would look
To find Endymion sleeping. ’Twas indeed
A pleasant place, and when I came to it
And told her, (did I say I was alone?)
That it was faery all, and only made
For her own lovely rest, she laughingly
Proclaimed herself a queen, and with the leaves
Bound her transparent temples for a crown,
And bade me kneel, and she would grant my boon
To half her fairy kingdom.
Could I paint
Her picture then! paint her voluptuous lip,
With its sweet curl of pride; the shaded eye
In its dark liquid lustre; the fair brow
With its light wandering veins, and raven braid
Contrasting with its whiteness; the faint blush
Upon her cheek, of maiden modesty,
And the rich outline, melting into grace,
Of her unmatched proportions; over all,
Could I but make the picture eloquent
With the deep, reedy music of her tone,
Or lend to you the golden leaf which bears
The sketch within my memory, you would know
How fairer than the summer, or the spring,
Should the October season seem to me.