In October.

Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,     Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar     The low long strip of dolorous red that lines     The under west, where wet winds moan afar.     The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows     With the blown leaves' wind-heapd traceries,     And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows,     And bear no bloom for bees.     As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips,     The sad trees rustle in chill misery,     A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips,     That move and murmur incoherently;     As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing,     With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door,     So many low soft masses for the dying     Sweet leaves that live no more.     Here I will sit upon this naked stone,     Draw my coat closer with my numbd hands,     And hear the ferns sigh, and the wet woods moan,     And send my heart out to the ashen lands;     And I will ask myself what golden madness,     What balmd breaths of dreamland spicery,     What visions of soft laughter and light sadness     Were sweet last month to me.     The dry dead leaves flit by with thin wierd tunes,     Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed,     Graven in mystic markings with strange runes,     That none but stars and biting winds may read;     Here I will wait a little; I am weary,     Not torn with pain of any lurid hue,     But only still and very gray and dreary,     Sweet sombre lands, like you.