October

“October turned my maple's leaves to gold;Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.”

“And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,And the year smiles as it draws near its death.”

“The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.”

“There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir:She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.”

“Is it the shrewd October wind Her breath in sudden sighs?”

“October's foliage yellows with his cold.”

“No clouds are in the morning sky,In the clear October morning.”

“And close at hand, the basket stoodWith nuts from brown October's wood.”