October
Brown leaves and berries! The old woods are grand
With the decay of nature. Traces here,
Which none but poets can decipher clear;
And there are lines by the great Artist’s hand.
A solemn stillness reigns o’er all the land.
Beside these elms I’ll watch the skylark soar,
Which sings as though an angel met his view.
The pilgrim pauses on the pensive moor,
And strains his eyes far up the heavenly blue.
Delightful ’tis, as day is waning now,
And the last wood-bird wheels along the air
To seek his mate upon the shelter’d bough,
And spend the night in leafy safety there,
To muse on Eden with its valleys fair.
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