OCTOBER

Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blows

A tourney trumpet on the listed hill:

Past is the splendor of the royal rose

And duchess daffodil.

Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden's space,

Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,

A ragged beggar with a lovely face,

Reigns the sad marigold.

And I have sought June's butterfly for days,

To find it — like a coreopsis bloom —

Amber and seal, rain-murdered‘ neath the blaze

Of this sunflower's plume.

Here basks the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wings

Dare God's blue gulfs of heaven; the last song,

The red-bird flings me as adieu, still rings

Upon yon pear-tree's prong.

No angry sunset brims with rosier red

The bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,

Pour in each blossom of this salvia-bed,

Where each leaf seems to bleed.

And where the wood-gnats dance, a tiny mist,

Above the efforts of the weedy stream,

The girl, October, tired of the tryst,

Dreams a diviner dream.

One foot just dipping the caressing wave,

One knee at languid angle; locks that drown

Hands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,

Watching the leaves drift down.