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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=566967" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>October, 1863</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Month of storm, beat shocks and sheaves,<br>Withered flowers, and falling leaves,<br>Sullen clouds that darkly loom<br>Like the shadows of the tomb;<br>Looks the sun through murky haze<br>With a weird and watery gaze,<br>Lighting up the fields and streams,<br>Vanishing like lightning gleams.<br>Brooks that sung through mead and dingle<br>With a silvery tinkle tingle,<br>Foaming, turbid, rush along<br>With a rudely brawling song.<br>Robin of the noiseless wing<br>And ruddy vest, begins to sing<br>His wintry lay, and, flitting by,<br>Scans me with his bold, bright eye.<br>Sore, October, thou hast grieved me,<br>Ah! thine advent hath deceived me,<br>For thou cam'st with thunder crashing,<br>Deadly lightnings round thee flashing,<br>Furious gales, and drenching rains,<br>Sweeping o'er the ravished plains.<br>I would welcome thee, October,<br>Gracious, mild, serene, and sober;<br>With thy fields of russet hue,<br>With thy skies of hazy blue,<br>With thy sun, whose chastened glory<br>Tells brown Autumn's latest story.<br>Month of all the circling year,<br>To my soul's best feelings dear,<br>Sweet the balm thou oft hast poured<br>When my heart had quailed and cowered,<br>And shrunk into its inner cell<br>To bleed unseen. I may not tell<br>The bitter woes, the chilling fears,<br>The grief that lies 'too deep for tears,'<br>The venomed sting, whose burning smart<br>Thrills o'er the life-strings of my heart.<br>O then how sweet the soft solace,<br>To gaze upon thy saintly face,<br>So dreamy, tender, meek, and calm;<br>My spirit drank the soothing balm,<br>The sense of stillness and repose<br>That round thee like a halo flows.<br>Dear to you above all others,<br>You, my toiling, care-worn brothers,<br>Is the needed, blessed boon<br>Of your weekly afternoon,<br>When, with grateful heart and eyes,<br>'Neath our 'Indian summer' skies,<br>Our own October, forth ye go<br>Picking berry, nùt, and sloe.<br>While the woodlands dim and sere,<br>Their treasure shed to form the bier-<br>The death-bed of the waning year-<br>Think of your own so very near:<br>So learn, so live, that each October<br>Finds you more wise, more chaste, more sober.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Janet+Hamilton">Janet Hamilton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=566967" data-title="October, 1863 de Janet Hamilton" data-description="Month of storm, beat shocks and sheaves,
Withered flowers, and falling leaves,
Sullen clouds that darkly loom
Like the shadows of the tomb;
Looks the sun through murky haze
With a weird and watery gaze,
Lighting up the fields and streams,
Vanishin..."></div>
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