And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
—Jean Blewett.
BEFORE THE RAIN
We knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit, on slender ropes of mist,