OCTOBER

Come walk a mile with me —‘ Tis now October;

And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green.

Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober,

And prophesy too plainly the unseen;

For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,—

Giving a glory to the fading leaf!

Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly,

Nature should plainly tell us life is brief.

The flowers, too, are fading — and are dying,

The leaves are falling, and incessantly,

And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying,

And the blue-jays once more are calling me;

But Winter!— Winter soon, too soon, is coming,

For see!— see there,— the frost is on the grass!

And the wild-bee — I hear no more its humming

As once I did, wherever I might pass;

And robin — he is gone, and all the singing

Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear,

While the dry leaves, to barren branches clinging,

Full plainly speak the passing of the year.