IN OCTOBER

By John Burroughs

Now comes the sunset of the verdant year,

Chemic fires, still and slow,

Burn in the leaves, till trees and groves appear

Dipped in the sunset’s glow.

Through many-stained windows of the wood

The day sends down its beams,

Till all the acorn-punctured solitude

Of sunshine softly dreams.

I take my way where sentry cedars stand

Along the bushy lane,

And whitethroats stir and call on every hand,

Or lift their wavering strain;

The hazel-bush holds up its crinkled gold

And scents the loit’ring breeze—

A nuptial wreath amid its leafage old

That laughs at frost’s decrees.

A purple bloom is creeping o’er the ash—

Dull wine against the day,

While dusky cedars wear a crimson sash

Of woodbine’s kindled spray.

I see the stolid oak tree’s smould’ring fire

Sullen against emerald rye;

And yonder sugar maple’s wild desire

To match the sunset sky.

On hedge and tree the bittersweet has hung

Its fruit that looks a flower;

While alder spray with coral berries strung

Is part of autumn’s dower.

The plaintive calls of bluebirds fill the air,

Wand’ring voices in the morn;

The ruby kinglet, flitting here and there,

Winds again his elfin horn.

Now Downy shyly drills his winter cell,

His white chips strew the ground;

While squirrels bark from hill or acorned dell—

A true autumnal sound.

I hear the feathered thunder of the grouse

Soft rolling through the wood,

Or pause to note where hurrying mole or mouse

Just stirs the solitude.

Anon the furtive flock-call of the quail

Comes up from weedy fields;

Afar the mellow thud of lonely flail

Its homely music yields.

Behold the orchards piled with painted spheres

New plucked from bending trees;

And bronzèd huskers tossing golden ears

In genial sun and breeze.

Once more the tranquil days brood o’er the hills,

And soothe earth’s toiling breast;

A benediction all the landscape fills

That breathes of peace and rest.