Classic Poem

October is drowsing still
Under a coverlet of mauve-blue haze;
From half-open eyes
Misted with sleep,
He gazes indolently,
Hesitating to put on his chilly glass sandals
And cap of shell-ice
Winged with flamingo feathers.
His cloak of gilt cobwebs
Is folded under him;
On the brown of his lazy limbs
The little chicory flowers cast tickling shadows,
The shadow of a planing hawk
Strokes him from head to heels,
Yet he drowses on,
Supine, stirless.

Wake! Wake, October!
We long to see your gilded cloak
Flying between us and the downy turquoise of the sky,
We long to see you change the sky to violet crystal,
And throw huge silver balloons against it
From your purse of winds,
For the apple gathering is over,
The apple trees stand somberly,
In dark green robes
Stripped of their jade and carnelian ornaments—
You cannot harm them now
Though you turn your purse of winds
Lining outward.

Wake! Wake, October!
While you are dozing
April has stolen back a-tiptoe;
She is playing lovely pranks on you,
On your fields and forests;
The horse-chestnuts glisten with sticky buds
Holding little five-fingered leaves
Packed like jewels in white cotton,
Some of the upper branches are even in full blossom,
The lilac under my window
Flaunts a purple plume;
Near my door step
She has set a dandelion
And three butter-cups.

Wake! Wake!
Snatch up your amber palette
And your brushes of hoar-frost.
You had only painted a bough here and there
When you fell a-napping,—
Slug-a-bed!
Now April is plucking off your beautiful painted leaves
Of yellow and scarlet,
And setting in their places
New leaves green as her own eyes.
She has waked the locust
And set him chirring again;
The birds, deceived by her,
Trill their mating-calls,
We shall have the year exquisitely topsy-turvy
If you do not waken at once,