Edges of stormy dawn and murky night
⁠Trespassing harshly on his mellow hours,
⁠October plucks the present while it flowers,
And revels as a splendid Sybarite.
What tho' his noontide wear the yellow light
⁠Of sunset, hinting of the doom that lowers, —
⁠He recks not; now astride the west wind scours
Blue steppes of air; now, languid with delight,
⁠Reclines in violet haze; flings silver rime
To the gossamer, bead-coral to the thorns,
⁠And showers on tree and fern his ruddy gold.
But as pards couch until the herded horns
⁠Slant valewards, winter lets him pass his prime,
⁠Then springs, and hales him to the caves of cold.