October: be mine

The Autumn Skies are flush'd with Gold

And fair and bright the Rivers run;

These are but streams of Winter Cold,

And painted mists that quench the Sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

In secret boughs no bird can shroud;

These are but Leaves that take to wing,

And Wintry Winds that pipe so loud.

'Tis not trees shade, but cloudy glooms

That on the Cheerless Vallies fall,

The Flowers are in their grassy tombs,

And Tears of Dew are on them all.

- Thomas Hood -