Late October.

The night was black—the dismal rain First dripped from sullen, inky clouds, And then was dashed against the pane, By winds that shrieked like demon crowds; When, on the midnight’s ebon breast, The storm, a moment, lulled to rest, I heard this low, half stifled moan With sorrow braided in the tone— “Who cares for me? Who, who?” The lurid lightning’s fitful glare Lit all the far, horizon’s rim— It showed the walnut, stripped and bare, And clutching one great, leafless limb Sat something weird, of dusky form; Defenceless, in the pelting storm, She faced alone that angry sky— October’s voice seemed in the cry, “Who cares for me? Who, Who?” With rush and wrench an angered fiend The loosened shutters clanged and swung, His single stroke the grove had preened And wide its deadened branches flung, And from the wide, o’er-hanging eaves He tore the crimson ivy leaves And wildly whirled them on the blast— The phantom murmured, as they passed, “Who cares for me? Who, Who?” The maples writhed as, tempest torn, Their branches beat the gables high, And, in the storm’s dark bosom borne, Mad thunders bellowed thro’ the sky. She spurned the spruce, with stately form, Whose robes of green might shield and warm, And yet, like sobbing on the gale, Was monotoned that dismal wail, “Who cares for me? Who, Who?” Again the leaping lightnings glared, The wind swept down the clinging vines, In twisting gusts the trees were bared, It rocked and tossed the rasping pines; Unmoved, amid the tempest there, And as the wraith of grim despair, Still clutched the limb, that dusky form, Repeating to the driving storm, “Who cares for me? Who, who?” The arbor gleamed with tangled vines, Where, erstwhile, hung, ’mid emerald sheen, The clustering wealth of unpressed wines; And charms of scarlet, gold and green, With opulence of fruit and grain, Poured riches for October’s reign; Now, conquered, robbed, usurped her throne, Her sorrow welling in the moan, “Who cares for me? Who, who?” * * * * * The morning sun is mocking cold— The vanquished queen stands, pale, forlorn, Her gauzy veil of dream and gold, And royal robes, all rent and torn, With bannered glories, trampled down, To bring her victor’s sparkling crown. She feebly smiles and passes on To join the old October’s, gone— November wails—“Who cares.”