| |
| FAR, far away, beyond a hazy height, | |
| The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy sleep; | |
| Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white, | |
| Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. | |
| |
| Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, | 5 |
| October robes the weeds in purple gowns; | |
| He Sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold, | |
| And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns. | |
| |
| The straggling fences all are interlaced | |
| With pink and purple morning-glory blooms; | 10 |
| The starry asters glorify the waste, | |
| While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes. | |
| |
| Yet still amid the splendor of decay | |
| The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead, | |
| The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away,— | 15 |
| The lovely summer songsters that have fled. | |
| |
| And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, | |
| Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, | |
| Pale Summer for her perished kingdom pines, | |
| And all the glories of her golden sheaves. | 20 |
| |
| In vain October wooes her to remain | |
| Within the palace of his scarlet bowers,— | |
| Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain, | |
| And weep no more above her faded flowers. | |
| |
| At last November, like a conqueror, comes | 25 |
| To storm the golden city of his foe; | |
| We hear his rude winds like the roll of drums, | |
| Bringing their desolation and their woe. | |
| |
| The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, | |
| Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, | 30 |
| The forest flames with blazes red as blood,— | |
| A conflagration sweeping to the sky. | |
| |
| Then all the treasures of that brilliant state | |
| Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; | |
| October, like a King resigned to fate, | 35 |
| Dies in his forests with their sunset fire. | |
| |
