Poems (Trask)/October

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

For works with similar titles, see October.

OCTOBER.

The yellow pen of Autumn gilds the green,
 And writes a song of glory on the leaves;
The crimson maples raise their brilliant sheen,
 And through the wood the southern balm-wind breathes.

There are soft voices in the whispering trees;
 Leaf unto leaf saying its sad farewell,—
Hearing afar the blighting brumal breeze
 Along gray highlands lift its solemn swell.

The star-eyed frost-flower, at the trees' dun feet,
 Nods low, as listening to the fairy sprites,
Which, maybe, at this season love to meet
 And trip the elfin dance these lonesome nights.

The snow-white rabbit, changed to dapple gray,
 Hops light along the leafy, rustling aisles;
The squirrel, chirping on his homeward way,
 Rests for a moment on the low rail stiles.

The graceful fox, with terror-quickened bounds,
 Though thirsty, stops not at the silver rills:
He hears the baying of the hoarse-mouthed hounds,
 And hunters shouting, down the bare brown hills.

The partridge drums along the yellow dell,
 The droning raven croaks on blasted trees,
And in the copse the quail's low piping bell
 Charms and entrances with its melodies.

The mellow apples blush in spacious heaps,
 Waiting to load the cumbrous harvest-wain;
The purple grapes gleam on the highland steeps,
 And scarlet thorn-plums every hill-side stain.

And at his work the reaper whistles shrill,
 Plodding his slow way o'er the wheat-grown wold;
And in the fields the corn-shocks stand so still
 They seem like towers of tessellated gold.

By Northern lakes the wild geese have long talks,
 Each shrill voice clamorous, vain of rule and sway,
Till through the air's long labyrinthine walks
 To warmer climes they take their circling way.

The sun sinks down; curtains of mist arise
 From murky tarn and sluggish-bosomed pool;
Dull fogs and vapors, hide the gorgeous skies,
 And ocean breezes blow in fresh and cool.