And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low—
“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”
“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”
All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;