Classic Poem

The year swings onward. Now the fairy sods
Glisten with frosty dew and on the path
Dead leaves are fallen. In mirth of mimic wrath
The hawthorn shakes his spears. The four wind-gods
Blow lustily and from the milk-weed pods
Seed-arrows scatter in an aftermath
Of feathered wings that drift into a bath
Of sunlight over withered golden-rods.

October, many wholesome pleasures fill
Thy tranquil hours—south-going wings a-whir,
The moist brown chestnut bursting from its burr,
The golden pumpkins dotted o'er the hill,
Those ingle hours that only autumn knows,
And apple incense richer than the rose.