THE OPAL MONTH

Now cometh October — a nut-brown maid,

Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed

Hath taken the king's highway!

On the world she smiles — but to me it seems

Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,

Or memories of the May.

Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair

Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare

As she dances gaily by —

Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,

And she tenderly holds against her breast

A belated butterfly.

The crickets sing no more to the stars —

The spiders no more put up silver bars

To entangle silken wings;

But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,

And here and there — both at night and at morn —

A lonely robin still sings.

A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent

With perfumed winds from the Orient

And they weave o'er her a spell,

For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet —

And while mists like incense curl at her feet,

She lingers her beads to tell.