Edges of stormy dawn and murky night
Trespassing harshly on his mellow hours,
October plucks the present while it flowers,
And revels as a splendid Sybarite.
What tho' his noontide wear the yellow light
Of sunset, hinting of the doom that lowers, —
He recks not; now astride the west wind scours
Blue steppes of air; now, languid with delight,
Reclines in violet haze; flings silver rime
To the gossamer, bead-coral to the thorns,
And showers on tree and fern his ruddy gold.
But as pards couch until the herded horns
Slant valewards, winter lets him pass his prime,
Then springs, and hales him to the caves of cold.