OCTOBER

CEASE to call him sad and sober,

Merriest of months, October!

Patron of the bursting bins,

Reveler in wayside inns,

I can nowhere find a trace

Of the pensive in his face;

There is mingled wit and folly,

But the madcap lacks the grace

Of a thoughtful melancholy.

Spendthrift of the seasons’ gold,

How he flings and scatters out

Treasure filched from summer-time!—

Never ruffling squire of old

Better loved a tavern bout

When Prince Hal was in his prime.

Doublet slashed with gold and green;

Cloak of crimson; changeful sheen,

Of the dews that gem his breast;

Frosty lace about his throat;

Scarlet plumes that flaunt and float

Backward in a gay unrest —

Where's another gallant drest

With such tricksy gaiety,

Such unlessoned vanity?

With his amber afternoons

And his pendant poets’ moons —

With his twilights dashed with rose

From the red-lipped afterglows —

With his vocal airs at dawn

Breathing hints of Helicon —

Bacchanalian bees that sip

Where his cider-presses drip —

With the winding of the horn

Where his huntsmen meet the morn —

With his every piping breeze

Shaking from familiar trees

Apples of Hesperides —

With the chuckle, chirp, and trill

Of his jolly brooks that spill

Mirth in tangled madrigals

Down pebble-dappled waterfalls —

( Brooks that laugh and make escape

Through wild arbors where the grape

Purples with a promise of

Racy vintage rare as love ) —

With his merry, wanton air,

Mirth and vanity and folly

Why should he be made to bear

Burden of some melancholy

Song that swoons and sinks with care?

Cease to call him sad or sober,—

He's a jolly dog, October!