Not changeful April, with her suns and showers,
Pregnant with buds, whose birth the genial hours
Of teeming May will give to life and light
Rich in young beauty, odorous and bright.
Not rose-crowned June, in trailing robes of bloom,
Her flowery censers breathing rich perfume,
Her glorious sunshine, and her bluest skies,
Her wealth of dancing leaves where zephyr sighs.
Nor fervid July, in her full-blown charms,
Shedding the odorous hay with sun-browned arms,
Nor glowing August, with her robe unbound,
With ripening grain, and juicy fruitage crowned.
Nor thee, September, though thine orchards glow
With fruits, ripe, rich, and ruddy-laying low
The yellow grain with gleaming sickles keen,
With jest and laugh, and harvest song between.
I sing October, month of all the year,
To poet's soul and calm deep feeling dear;
Her chastened sunshine, and her dreamy skies
With tender magic charm my heart and eyes.
In silvery haze the purple hills are swathed,
In dripping dews the faded herbage bathed-
Red Robin trills his winter-warning ditty;
His big bright eye invoking crumbs and pity.
From fading woodlands, ever pattering down,
Come many tinted leaves-red, yellow, brown;
The rustling carpet with slow lingering feet
I thoughtful tread, inhaling odours sweet.
The very soul of quietude is breathing
O'er field and lake, with sweetest peace enwreathing
My tranquil soul, from fonts of blissful feeling
Sweet silent tears adown my cheeks are stealing.
Spirit of meekness brooding in the air,
On thy soft pinions waft my lowly prayer,
That I may meet, calm, meek, resigned, and sober,
My life's decline-my solemn-last October.