OCTOBER
LIKE gallant courtiers, the forest trees
Flaunt in their crimson robes with broidered gold;
And, like a king in royal purple's fold,
The oak flings largess to the beggar breeze.
Forever burning, ever unconsumed,
Like the strange portent of the prophet's bush,
The autumn flames amid a sacred hush;
The forest glory never brighter bloomed.
Upon the lulled and drowsy atmosphere
Fall faint and low the far-off muffled stroke
Of woodman's axe, the school-boy's ringing cheer,
The watch-dog's bay, and crash of falling oak;
And gleam the apples through the orchard trees,
Like golden fruit of the Hesperides.