OCTOBER
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis now October;
And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green.
Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober,
And prophesy too plainly the unseen;
For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,—
Giving a glory to the fading leaf!
Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly,
Nature should plainly tell us life is brief.
The flowers, too, are fading—and are dying,
The leaves are falling, and incessantly,
And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying,
And the blue-jays once more are calling me;
But Winter!—Winter soon, too soon, is coming,
For see!—see there,—the frost is on the grass!
And the wild-bee—I hear no more its humming
As once I did, wherever I might pass;
And robin—he is gone, and all the singing
Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear,
While the dry leaves, to barren branches clinging,
Full plainly speak the passing of the year.
NOVEMBER
Come walk a mile with me—November!—Faintly
The long, blue hills lift to the eastern sky;
'Tis Indian-summer now—this day seems saintly,
Like some good martyr e'er he goes to die;
The skies are cloudless; not a breeze is blowing,
And silent is each bare and leafless form;
The brooks—how quiet!—I like not their flowing,
For oh,—it is the calm before the storm.
Yes, yes—e'en now—to Westward—look! a figure
Is sudden forming, stretching forth a wand,
Shaping a shape as of some giant, bigger
Than any fabled thing from Fairyland;
Higher and higher that strange shape is lifting,
Swifter and swifter its fleet heralds run,
Wider and wider its white breath is drifting
As lower sinks the slow decending sun;
And now—the storm!—the storm is on us. Hurry!
Yet see!—the myriad snow-flakes—see them come!
O Comrade!—See!—it is young Winter's flurry—
And yet 'tis but the storm that drives us home.
DECEMBER
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis dark December;
The cold, rough winds are never, never still;
O for the days of Spring I well remember!
O for the flowers that blossomed on the hill!—
And wish you not that you,—you too were playing
Upon the hillside, building castles there,
Dreaming sweet dreams, as when we went a-Maying,
Midst singing birds and blossoms sweet and fair?
But hark, the wind!—and see, the falling snow-flakes!
How thick they come—how beautiful they seem!
Yet I am weary—weary of the snow-flakes—
O Comrade!—tell me,—is it all a dream;
O Comrade!—Comrade!—Winter is upon us;
Our hopes, like snow-flakes, now are falling fast,
Our dreams are broken—God have mercy on us!—
We must not perish in the wintry blast—
For see, O see!—the sun,—the sun is shining!
'Tis noon, and lo!—yon glorious orb of day
Is turning backward, a New-year designing—
So shall all Winters turn to Spring alway.