OCTOBER.
85
OCTOBER.
HE door-yard trees put on their autumn bloom, Purple and gold and crimson rich and strong,
That stain the light, and give my lonesome room
An atmosphere of sunset all day long:
In giddy whirls the yellow elm-leaves fall,
The rifled cherry-boughs grow sere and thinned,
Yet still the morning-glories on the wall
Fling out their purple trumpets to the wind,—
The rifled cherry-boughs grow sere and thinned,
Yet still the morning-glories on the wall
Fling out their purple trumpets to the wind,—
So full but now of summer's triumph-notes,
The moth's soft wing their powdery stamens stirred,
The bees rich murmur filled their honeyed throats,
And the quick thrilling of the humming-bird.
The moth's soft wing their powdery stamens stirred,
The bees rich murmur filled their honeyed throats,
And the quick thrilling of the humming-bird.
In the long dreary nights of storm I hear
The windy woodbine beat against the pane,
The windy woodbine beat against the pane,
