OCTOBER
OCTOBER—and the parting of the ways!
The backward path runs to the heart of June
And still is vocal with unspoken rune
Of greening sod and fruited field.
We hear it yet in faint recessional
As moves the year to its confessional
Close to the altar steps of God.
The backward path runs to the heart of June
And still is vocal with unspoken rune
Of greening sod and fruited field.
We hear it yet in faint recessional
As moves the year to its confessional
Close to the altar steps of God.
The trail ahead runs down the glowing way
That autumn's torch has fired. And pilgrim lure
Of lifted pack and staff that's strong and sure
Lurks at each turn along the road,
And we walk forth beneath the paling skies
With searching vision and far-seeing eyes
And ask if we have found the end.
That autumn's torch has fired. And pilgrim lure
Of lifted pack and staff that's strong and sure
Lurks at each turn along the road,
And we walk forth beneath the paling skies
With searching vision and far-seeing eyes
And ask if we have found the end.
High priestess, robed and crowned, October stands,
Her breasts gold-girdled and her white arms bare,
And makes burnt sacrifice in which we share,
For every "burning bush" along the hedge
Is wayside altar, flaming to the skies,
And there we offer, with uplifted eyes,
Oblation of our baser selves—
And burn the dross to incense of the soul.
Her breasts gold-girdled and her white arms bare,
And makes burnt sacrifice in which we share,
For every "burning bush" along the hedge
Is wayside altar, flaming to the skies,
And there we offer, with uplifted eyes,
Oblation of our baser selves—
And burn the dross to incense of the soul.
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