OCTOBER.

Not the light of the long blue summer, Nor the flowery huntress, Spring, Nor the chilly and moaning Winter, Doth peace to my bosom bring, Like the hazy and red October, When the woods stand bare and brown, And into the lap of the south land, The flowers are blowing down; When all night long, in the moonlight, The boughs of the roof tree chafe, And the wind, like a wandering poet, Is singing a mournful waif; And all day through the cloud-armies, The sunbeams coquettishly rove— For then in my path first unfolded The sweet passion-flower of love. With bosom as pale as the sea-shell, And soft as the flax unspun, And locks like the nut-brown shadows In the light of the sunken sun, Came the maiden whose wonderful beauty Enchanted my soul from pain, And gladdened my heart, that can never, No, never be happy again. Far away from life's pain and passion, And our Eden of love, she went, Like a pale star fading softly From the morning's golden tent. But oft, when the bosom of Autumn Is warm with the summer beams, We meet in the pallid shadows That border the land of dreams, For seeing my woe through the splendor That hovers about her above, She puts from her forehead the glory, And listens again to my love.