Thistles send their missives white
To the sky;
Robins southward wing their flight,
(Sad goodbye!)
But where Summer, yellow-gowned,
Last has trod,
Thorn-torn fragments strew the ground—
Goldenrod!
Virginia Lucas
October
Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf
To blind the eyes of grief;
Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit
That sorrow may be mute;
A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep,
Ere the gray dusk may creep
Sober and sad along thy dusty ways,
Like a lone nun, who prays;
High and faint-heard thy passing migrant calls;
Thy lazy lizard sprawls
On his gray stone, and many slow winds creep
About thy hedge, asleep;
The Sun swings farther toward his love, the South,
To kiss her glowing mouth;
And Death, who steals among thy purpling bowers,
Is deeply hid in flowers.
John Charles McNeill
October First
Come on thy swaying feet,
Wild Spirit of the Fall!
With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet brown
Crowned with bright berries of the bitter sweet.
Trip a light measure with the hurrying leaf,
Straining thy few late roses to thy breast:
With laughter overgay, sweet eyes drooped down,
That none may guess thy grief:
Dare not to pause for rest
Lest the slow tears should gather to their fall.
Danske Dandridge
October Second
In all our associations; in all our agreements let us never lose sight of this fundamental maxim—that all power was originally lodged in, and consequently derived from, the people. We should wear it as a breastplate, and buckle it on as our armour.