October,—and the skies are cool and grey O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day, Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief. Only a robin sings from any spray. And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills White mist around the hollows of the hills, Phantom of firth or lake; the peasant sees His cot and stackyard, with the homestead trees, In-islanded; but no vain terror thrills His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE by HENRY HOWARD WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION? by THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY ON A HILL-TOP by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR NIGHTINGALE by CHRISTIAN CARSTAIRS ST. FRANCIS' PRAYER by GERALD L. CLARK |