Poems (Chitwood)/October

For works with similar titles, see October.

OCTOBER.

Ah! Sweetest month of all the year,
Thy sober footstep now is here,
Thy quiet hours so calm, so dear,
Are with us now again.
I love thy woods, I love thy skies,
Thy murmuring breeze that restless sighs,
Thy gorgeous leaves of many dyes
That fall in wood and glen.

I love to ramble in thy woods,
To seek thy lonely solitudes,
Where nought but nature's step intrudes
Upon the stillness round;
To watch the warring of the trees,
To hear the sighing of the breeze
As if its dirge-like melodies,
Some answ'ring soul had found.

I love thy rills that float in light,
Whose waves reflect the day-beams bright,
And the blue starry vault of night
That brightly glows on high;
I love to watch their wanderings, too,
Gliding by mosses gemmed with dew,
By nooks where flowers of paly hue
Still smile unconsciously.

October, charmed with many a grace,
I love the smiling of thy face,
I love each hill, each grove, each place
Which tells that thou art near;
Thy skies are veiled in smoky veil,
Thy clouds are tinged with crimson pale,
And heaven and earth repeat the tale,
"October fair is here."

Fair month, so pensive, calm and mild,
Thou ever hast my soul beguiled,
I've loved thee even from a child
Of footstep wild and free;
When life's bright path was gemmed with flowers,
When Hope's bird sung in joys pure bowers,
Then were thy hours, thy pensive hours,
Most dear, most dear to me.

Yes, bright October, thou art dear,
The sweetest month of all the year,
Time, with his never cheeked career,
Must bear thee soon away;
Yet still within my heart shall rise,
Sweet memories of thy shadowy skies,
Thy gorgeous leaves of many dyes,
For many a future day.