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OCTOBER.
- IT is no joy to me to sit
- On dreamy summer eves,
- When silently the timid moon
- Kisses the sleeping leaves,
- And all things through the fair hushed earth
- Love, rest—but nothing grieves.
- Better I like old Autumn
- With his hair tossed to and fro,
- Firm striding o’er the stubble fields
- When the equinoctials blow.
- When shrinkingly the sun creeps up
- Through misty mornings cold,
- And Robin on the orchard hedge
- Sings cheerily and bold,
- While the frosted plum
- Drops downward on the mould;—
- And as he passes, Autumn
- Into earth’s lap does throw
- Brown apples gay in a game of play,
- As the equinoctials blow.
- When the spent year its carol sinks
- Into a humble psalm,
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- Asks no more for the pleasure draught,
- But for the cup of balm,
- And all its storms and sunshine bursts
- Controls to one brave calm,—
- Then step by step walks Autumn,
- With steady eyes that show
- Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year,
- While the equinoctials blow.
