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Dinah Maria Mulock - October
Work rating: Low

IT is no joy to me to sit 
On dreamy summer eves, 
When silently the timid moon 
Kisses the sleeping leaves, 
And all things through the fair hushed earth 
Love, rest--but nothing grieves. 
Better I like old Autumn 
With his hair tossed to and fro, 
Firm striding o`er the stubble fields 
When the equinoctials blow. 

When shrinkingly the sun creeps up 
Through misty mornings cold, 
And Robin on the orchard hedge 
Sings cheerily and bold, 
While the frosted plum 
Drops downward on the mould;-- 
And as he passes, Autumn 
Into earth`s lap does throw 
Brown apples gay in a game of play, 
As the equinoctials blow. 

When the spent year its carol sinks 
Into a humble psalm, 
Asks no more for the pleasure draught, 
But for the cup of balm, 
And all its storms and sunshine bursts 
Controls to one brave calm,-- 
Then step by step walks Autumn, 
With steady eyes that show 
Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, 
While the equinoctials blow.
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