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Full wealth of pleasing sights
October brings us--rare delights
Of golden days, and moon-bright, silver nights.


The very air is wine,
And cordial, in its crystalline,
Cool sweetness, and we drink the nectar fine.


Some small, white flowers--the pledge
Of the dead Summer--star the edge
Of the wide field's embroidery of hedge.


The mountains wear their hoods
Of cloud with softer grace; there broods
A royal splendor over all the woods.


Leaves, red as sunset skies--
Leaves, opulent with Tyrian dyes,
Or gold, or brown, a glory and surprise!


And scarlet berries shine;
And wild grapes, filled with ruddy wine,
Are meshed and held in tangled nets of vine.


Some migrant birds we know,
Whose notes in rippling music flow,
Are heard no more. Ah! whither did they go?


Perhaps in far-off isles
Of Indian seas, where summer smiles,
Each song we love some weary heart beguiles.


Yet, the brown quail is here,
Piping, in treble, full and clear,
His song of home, and sweet content, and cheer.


The red-wing spreads his wings
Above the ripening corn, and sings--
Nor sweeter notes leaped from Apollo's strings.


And, shrill, the noisy jay,
A blue-coat cynic, day by day,
Scolds in the walnut tree across the way.


He scolds because, perchance,
He sees the darker days advance,
When Winter comes to couch a frosty lance;


Because the forest's crown
Of splendid leafage, drifting down,
Will leave his realm a landscape, bare and brown.


So moves the painted show--
Mirage of Summer! till the glow
Of Autumn dies, amid the falling snow!