OCTOBER
Down, the faded leaves are drifting,
From grey branches overhead;
All summer birds have taken flight,
The grass is sere and dead.—
The brown earth tells us Summer’s gone—
The frost lies white at early morn.
October
See! now is yon distant landscape
Clothed in warm and purple haze;
Redolent with ripen’d harvests
Of the Indian Summer days.
Bright—ye golden days—and glad,
Beautiful, yet erstwhile sad
October
Now the corn, no longer waving,
Shocked, stands waiting for the bin;
Choice fruit and garden products
Soon will all be gathered in.
Golden pumpkins, piled up high,—
Indicative of luscious pie!
October!
TO MARY
Dear Mary: The sweet bells of Christmas
Are ringing out vibrant and true,—
As I list to their music in gladness
I am thinking of Danville and you.