October Musings, 1866
Silent, grave, subdued, and sober,
Month beloved, my own October!
Resting in thy peaceful arms,
Seeing not, I feel thy charms-
Feel upon my withered cheek
Thy gentle breath, thy whispers meek;
Tell of Autumn's latest sheaves,
Songless woods, and falling leaves-
Nature's floral wreath despoiled;
Hueless, scentless, matted, soiled,
Fall her tresses thin and gray,
Bending to October's sway.
Summer sun with thirsty beams
Drinking dry the pools and streams:
Where thy fervid glories now,
The burning splendours of thy brow?
Veiled effulgence now is thine,
Tender radiance, half divine;
This dreamy quiet, this stilly calm,
Sheds around a soothing balm.
Hushed beneath the influence mild,
My soul is like a weanèd child-
Weaned from earth's low cares and joys,
Vain pursuits, and worthless toys.
Life's short race is nearly run,
And the goal will soon be won;
Still I bear in heart and mind
The wants and sufferings of my kind.
Sad, yet sweet, to moralise
'Neath October's solemn skies,
When the finger of decay
Points the year's declining day;
Like the hand upon the wall,
'Born to die,' inscribes on all:
Flowers decayed and earth defiled,
Where of late they bloomed and smiled;
Fields and wood's dim, bare, and gray,
In every aspect of decay,
Tell me that I too must die-
In cold decay and darkness lie,
Till He, whose name I love and trust,
Shall wake to life my sleeping dust.
poem by Janet Hamilton
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October, 1863
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,
Vanishing like lightning gleams.
Brooks that sung through mead and dingle
With a silvery tinkle tingle,
Foaming, turbid, rush along
With a rudely brawling song.
Robin of the noiseless wing
And ruddy vest, begins to sing
His wintry lay, and, flitting by,
Scans me with his bold, bright eye.
Sore, October, thou hast grieved me,
Ah! thine advent hath deceived me,
For thou cam'st with thunder crashing,
Deadly lightnings round thee flashing,
Furious gales, and drenching rains,
Sweeping o'er the ravished plains.
I would welcome thee, October,
Gracious, mild, serene, and sober;
With thy fields of russet hue,
With thy skies of hazy blue,
With thy sun, whose chastened glory
Tells brown Autumn's latest story.
Month of all the circling year,
To my soul's best feelings dear,
Sweet the balm thou oft hast poured
When my heart had quailed and cowered,
And shrunk into its inner cell
To bleed unseen. I may not tell
The bitter woes, the chilling fears,
The grief that lies 'too deep for tears,'
The venomed sting, whose burning smart
Thrills o'er the life-strings of my heart.
O then how sweet the soft solace,
To gaze upon thy saintly face,
So dreamy, tender, meek, and calm;
My spirit drank the soothing balm,
The sense of stillness and repose
That round thee like a halo flows.
Dear to you above all others,
You, my toiling, care-worn brothers,
Is the needed, blessed boon
Of your weekly afternoon,
When, with grateful heart and eyes,
'Neath our 'Indian summer' skies,
Our own October, forth ye go
Picking berry, nùt, and sloe.
While the woodlands dim and sere,
Their treasure shed to form the bier-
The death-bed of the waning year-
Think of your own so very near:
So learn, so live, that each October
Finds you more wise, more chaste, more sober.
poem by Janet Hamilton
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Life's Seasons
When all the world was Mayday,
And all the skies were blue,
Young innocence made playday
Among the flowers and dew;
Then all of life was Mayday,
And clouds were none or few.
II
When all the world was Summer,
And morn shone overhead,
Love was the sweet newcomer
Who led youth forth to wed;
Then all of life was Summer,
And clouds were golden red.
III
When earth was all October,
And days were gray with mist,
On woodways, sad and sober,
Grave memory kept her tryst;
Then life was all October,
And clouds were twilight-kissed.
IV
Now all the world's December,
And night is all alarm,
Above the last dim ember
Grief bends to keep him warm;
Now all of life's December,
And clouds are driven storm.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Late Autumn
October - and the skies are cool and gray
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,
Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees
His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees,
Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills
His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.
poem by William Allingham
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Sonnet In Bee Flat
There must be a place (but I've yet to find one)
beneath the Sol-drawn dawn of autumn skies
where cut-throat trout still find the heart to run
and the fullness of Summer's life never dies.
There, as if Earth had changed rotation,
Instead of honey, nature gathers dew
and composes a world without notation.
Unlike the life of old, this work is new.
Despite the nearing gray cold wintry blast,
the twisted fir tree keeps her dreams of green,
of a chamomile welwitschian past,
and buzzing yellow flights of friends less seen.
But bees still dance their flower pollen-aise,
a song of haze gold mid-October days.
(mindbringer,19 October 2009)
poem by Thomas Holderfield
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Autumn Falling Leaves
When all have been and gone away,
Like leaves from green to amber orange,
Falling down and to decay,
Is the time for all in nature to fall,
And the leaves on the trees show it all,
Autumn and its falls of fall,
Where all the branches have dropped their leaves,
All have gone except the evergreens,
Showing signs to us that live among,
Four seasons weather,
Where Autumn is,
Just like in life,
When full circle of life is known,
A start in spring where buds appear,
Then in summer full bloom trees will be,
Hence, fall shows all,
When nature falls,
Begining another season,
Winter and chill tempetures,
Where nature decays,
And leaves do fall,
To generate again,
Renewing its life,
Come spring again,
Untill then,
Autumn sheads its leaves of blossom and blooms,
And soon again autumn begins,
From new to old,
And then old to new,
Buds in spring and leaves of green,
Showing birth from what did decayed,
And brought forth from,
What was bear on the trees,
From where beneath was where once,
Those Autumn falling leaves.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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October
Across the land a faint blue veil of mist
Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober
Till frost shall make them flame; silent and whist
The drooping cherry orchards of October
Like mournful pennons hang their shrivelling leaves
Russet and orange: all things now decay;
Long since ye garnered in your autumn sheaves,
And sad the robins pipe at set of day.
Now do ye dream of Spring when greening shaws
Confer with the shrewd breezes, and of slopes
Flower-kirtled, and of April, virgin guest;
Days that ye love, despite their windy flaws,
Since they are woven with all joys and hopes
Whereof ye nevermore shall be possessed.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Truly, Truly, This Is The End
They say deaths an open door
Into another room
Within the city of the dead
(Our New Kingdom)
They say we walk like dreams
Sharing the same breath
Seeing through the same eyes
(A collective spirit)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
They say the Earth it gives no peace
Nor does it take away
We all survive the grave
(Unfortunate eternal)
They say that in times past
A king walked in the sky
Until dethroned by man
(Tribe of Judas)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
This is the end
song performed by by Zao
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Haunted October
Where comes the darkness
that would swallow October and haunt the moon?
The month that is touched by Lucifer's kiss.
The shadow that would roll across September
darkens as the month grows old and the season late.
All the fallen things of blackness
dance out in celebration, like a child on Christmas morn.
October was the season born on Abel's dying scream!
When a grain offering wasn't enough it cried
'GIVE ME BLOOD! '
And the angel of light basked in the glow from that...
Bewitched moons illumination.
Alas a season a season born of murder.
Death's frosted breath rattles the very leaves from the trees
and sleeps the whole earth in an icy grave, with just one touch,
and Satan's cloven hoof marks pock
the frosted Earth till Heaven's son
steps from the grave and Satan takes his place.
poem by Trucker Jeff
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Voices Of The Night : Midnight Mass For The Dying Year
Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, 'Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!'
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despiséd Lear,
A king, a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! Oh, the man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
'Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!'
And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
'Vex not his ghost!'
Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Why don't you come? [De ce nu-mi vii?]
Behold! The birds will fly away
And walnut leaves will soon decay,
The rime has made the vineyards numb
Why don't you come, why don't you come?
Oh, come again with all your charms
I want to feel you in my arms,
To lay my head upon your breast
And there to rest, and there to rest!
Remember how we used to stray
Over the hills and far away,
How we were walking in the rain
Time and again, time and again?
I know there are a lot of dames
Whose eyes are burning like two flames,
But doesn't matter what they do
They're not like you, they're not like you!
Therefore you are my only goal
For you can stir my drowsy soul
And you are brighter than the sun,
My precious one, my precious one!
The autumn everything will seize
The leaves are falling from the trees
And all the fields bare have become,
Why don't you come, why don't you come?
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Midnight Mass for the Dying Year
Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!"
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"
And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!"
Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Indian summer
O sweet, sad autumn of the waning year,
Though in thy bowers the roses all lie dead,
And from thy woods the song of birds has fled,
And winter, stern and cold, is hovering near;
Yet from thy presence breathes a holy calm.
The fervid heats, the lightning storms, all past,
A tender light o'er earth and sky is cast,
And all thy solemn voices chant a psalm.
Oh, Indian Summer, autumn of the soul,
That no returning Spring shall visit more,
Though all thy rose-hued morning dreams are o'er,
And phantoms dread stand threat'ning at the goal,
Yet are these days dear as e'en Summer knew;
These Sibylline leaves of life, so precious, since so few.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I; july guy; her october
I; july guy
Her october
I love the month
I love her.
October is full of life.
Mine july is of heat.
She gives me relief.
Thus I survive october.
For me, she is precious.
More than the month.
No wonder I merry her.
As she was born in october.
poem by Vizard Dhawan
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To the Autumn
Sweet Sabbath of the year!
While evening lights decay,
Thy parting steps methinks I hear
Steal from the world away.
Amid thy silent bowers,
'Tis sad, but sweet, to dwell;
Where falling leaves and drooping flowers
Around me breathe farewell.
Along thy sunset skies
Their glories melt in shade,
And like the things we fondly prize,
Seem lovelier as they fade.
A deep and crimson streak
Thy dying leaves disclose;
As on consumption's waning cheek
'Mid ruin blooms the rose.
Thy scene each vision brings
Of beauty in decay;
Of fair and early faded things
Too exquisite to stay.
Of joys that come no more;
Of flowers whose bloom is fled;
Of farewells wept upon the shore;
Of friends estranged or dead.
Of all that now may seem
To memory's tearful eye,
The vanish'd beauty of a dream,
O'er which we gaze and sigh!
poem by James Montgomery
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It Was One of Those Fine October Days
It was one of those fine October days
free from summer’s heat and haze
but not yet gripped by autumn chill.
It was one of those fine October days
when the sky’s so clear
you can see the moon
through the atmosphere
at midday.
It was one of those fine October days
when the trees sport yellow and red
instead of everyday summer green.
It was one of those fine October days
when one draws a deep breath
and is grateful
to be resident on Earth.
poem by Richard Greene
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St. Martin's Summer
Though flowers have perished at the touch
Of Frost, the early comer,
I hail the season loved so much,
The good St. Martin's summer.
O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,
And thin moon curving o'er it!
The old year's darling, latest born,
More loved than all before it!
How flamed the sunrise through the pines!
How stretched the birchen shadows,
Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines
The westward sloping meadows!
The sweet day, opening as a flower
Unfolds its petals tender,
Renews for us at noontide's hour
The summer's tempered splendor.
The birds are hushed; alone the wind,
That through the woodland searches,
The red-oak's lingering leaves can find,
And yellow plumes of larches.
But still the balsam-breathing pine
Invites no thought of sorrow,
No hint of loss from air like wine
The earth's content can borrow.
The summer and the winter here
Midway a truce are holding,
A soft, consenting atmosphere
Their tents of peace enfolding.
The silent woods, the lonely hills,
Rise solemn in their gladness;
The quiet that the valley fills
Is scarcely joy or sadness.
How strange! The autumn yesterday
In winter's grasp seemed dying;
On whirling winds from skies of gray
The early snow was flying.
And now, while over Nature's mood
There steals a soft relenting,
I will not mar the present good,
Forecasting or lamenting.
My autumn time and Nature's hold
A dreamy tryst together,
And, both grown old, about us fold
The golden-tissued weather.
I lean my heart against the day
To feel its bland caressing;
I will not let it pass away
Before it leaves its blessing.
God's angels come not as of old
The Syrian shepherds knew them;
In reddening dawns, in sunset gold,
And warm noon lights I view them.
Nor need there is, in times like this
When heaven to earth draws nearer,
Of wing or song as witnesses
To make their presence clearer.
O stream of life, whose swifter flow
Is of the end forewarning,
Methinks thy sundown afterglow
Seems less of night than morning!
Old cares grow light; aside I lay
The doubts and fears that troubled;
The quiet of the happy day
Within my soul is doubled.
That clouds must veil this fair sunshine
Not less a joy I find it;
Nor less yon warm horizon line
That winter lurks behind it.
The mystery of the untried days
I close my eyes from reading;
His will be done whose darkest ways
To light and life are leading!
Less drear the winter night shall be,
If memory cheer and hearten
Its heavy hours with thoughts of thee,
Sweet summer of St. Martin!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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George Edmunds' Song
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around he here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
How like the hopes of childhood's day,
Thick clust'ring on the bough!
How like those hopes in their decay-
How faded are they now!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before the gale:
Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale,
Of love once true, and friends once kind,
And happy moments fled:
Dispersed by every breath of wind,
Forgotten, changed, or dead!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
poem by Charles Dickens
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The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa
Dearest, best and brightest,
Come away,
To the woods and to the fields!
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the Hours of Spring,
Into the Winter wandering,
Looks upon the leafless wood,
And the banks all bare and rude;
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February’s bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains,
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun--
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood,
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was--the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain's waste
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced;--
A spirit interfused around,
A thinking, silent life;
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;--
And still, it seemed, the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love
The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee?
We stood beneath the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day—
In which the massy forests grew
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament
With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.
Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian air,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S---'s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Memories
A beautiful and happy girl,
With step as light as summer air,
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a careless curl
Of unconfined and flowing hair;
A seeming child in everything,
Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,
As Nature wears the smile of Spring
When sinking into Summer's arms.
A mind rejoicing in the light
Which melted through its graceful bower,
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,
And stainless in its holy white,
Unfolding like a morning flower
A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,
With every breath of feeling woke,
And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.
How thrills once more the lengthening chain
Of memory, at the thought of thee!
Old hopes which long in dust have lain
Old dreams, come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;
I feel its glow upon my cheek,
Its fulness of the heart is mine,
As when I leaned to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.
I hear again thy low replies,
I feel thy arm within my own,
And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes,
With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than they!
Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled
My picture of thy youth to see,
When, half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,
And folly's self seemed wise in thee;
I too can smile, when o'er that hour
The lights of memory backward stream,
Yet feel the while that manhood's power
Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.
Years have passed on, and left their trace,
Of graver care and deeper thought;
And unto me the calm, cold face
Of manhood, and to thee the grace
Of woman's pensive beauty brought.
More wide, perchance, for blame than praise,
The school-boy's humble name has flown;
Thine, in the green and quiet ways
Of unobtrusive goodness known.
And wider yet in thought and deed
Diverge our pathways, one in youth;
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed,
While answers to my spirit's need
The Derby dalesman's simple truth.
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer,
And holy day, and solemn psalm;
For me, the silent reverence where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.
Yet hath thy spirit left on me
An impress Time has worn not out,
And something of myself in thee,
A shadow from the past, I see,
Lingering, even yet, thy way about;
Not wholly can the heart unlearn
That lesson of its better hours,
Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn
To common dust that path of flowers.
Thus, while at times before our eyes
The shadows melt, and fall apart,
And, smiling through them, round us lies
The warm light of our morning skies,--
The Indian Summer of the heart!
In secret sympathies of mind,
In founts of feeling which retain
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find
Our early dreams not wholly vain
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Showery October Afternoon
It is a showery afternoon water drips from the trees
But it's not cold a mild Spring day perhaps twenty degrees
In late October in the hills you do get days like these
When morning sun give way to showers though cool enough the breeze.
The black faced cuckoo shrike is back from places far away
A bird you never can mistake in cloak of silver gray
And in the wood the high pitched voice of the gray currawong
These birds you come to recognize by their distinctive song.
On the high gum tree in their nest young magpies chirp and call
And October in the Dandenongs the loveliest month of all
The high paddocks of Belgrave South are looking lush and green
And Mother Nature beautiful as lovely as I've seen.
The migratory welcome swallows back in the hills again
They fly low o'er the paddocks the flies are low in rain
My favourite Season of the year has always been the Spring
In storm and rain and sunshine the wild birds chirp and sing
This morning pretty butterflies flitted around the flowers
But the afternoon turned cloudy and sun gave way to showers
In October in the Dandenongs you do get days like these
A day of showers and sun shine water dripping off the trees.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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