Benediction.

Sloane, Cornwall Bridge, n/d

IN OCTOBER

Now comes the sunset of the verdant year,

Chemic fires, still and slow,

Burn in the leaves, till trees and groves appear

Dipped in the sunset's glow.

 

Through many-stained windows of the wood

The day sends down its beams,

Till all the acorn-punctured solitude

Of sunshine softly dreams.

 

I take my way where sentry cedars stand

Along the bushy lane,

And whitethroats stir and call on every hand,

Or lift their wavering strain;

 

The hazel-bush holds up its crinkled gold

And scents the loit'ring breeze--

A nuptial wreath amid its leafage old

That laughs at frost's decrees.

 

A purple bloom is creeping o'er the ash--

Dull wine against the day,

While dusky cedars wear a crimson sash

Of woodbine's kindled spray.

 

I see the stolid oak tree's smould'ring fire

Sullen against emerald rye;

And yonder sugar maple's wild desire

To match the sunset sky.

 

On hedge and tree the bittersweet has hung

Its fruit that looks a flower;

While alder spray with coral berries strung

Is part of autumn's dower.

 

The plaintive calls of bluebirds fill the air,

Wand'ring voices in the morn;

The ruby kinglet, flitting here and there,

Winds again his elfin horn.

 

Now Downy shyly drills his winter cell,

His white chips strew the ground;

While squirrels bark from hill or acorned dell--

A true autumnal sound.

 

I hear the feathered thunder of the grouse

Soft rolling through the wood,

Or pause to note where hurrying mole or mouse

Just stirs the solitude.

 

Anon the furtive flock-call of the quail

Comes up from weedy fields;

Afar the mellow thud of lonely flail

Its homely music yields.

 

Behold the orchards piled with painted spheres

New plucked from bending trees;

And bronzèd huskers tossing golden ears

In genial sun and breeze.

 

Once more the tranquil days brood o'er the hills,

And soothe earth's toiling breast;

A benediction all the landscape fills

That breathes of peace and rest.

John Burroughs