October In Tennessee
by Walter Malone (1866-1915) |
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FAR, far away, beyond a hazy height,
The turquoise
skies are hung in dreamy sleep;
Below, the fields of
cotton, fleecy-white,
Are spreading like a mighty flock
of sheep.
Now, like Aladdin of the days of old,
October robes the weeds in purple gowns;
He Sprinkles all
the sterile fields with gold,
And all the rustic trees
wear royal crowns.
The straggling fences all are
interlaced
With pink and purple morning-glory blooms;
The starry asters glorify the waste,
While grasses stand
on guard with pikes and plumes.
Yet still amid the
splendor of decay
The chill winds call for blossoms that
are dead,
The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away,�
The lovely summer songsters that have fled.
And
lonesome in a haunt of withered vines,
Amid the flutter
of her withered leaves,
Pale Summer for her perished
kingdom pines,
And all the glories of her golden sheaves.
In vain October wooes her to remain
Within the palace
of his scarlet bowers,�
Entreats her to forget her
heart-break pain,
And weep no more above her faded
flowers.
At last November, like a conqueror, comes
To storm the golden city of his foe;
We hear his rude
winds like the roll of drums,
Bringing their desolation
and their woe.
The sunset, like a vast vermilion
flood,
Splashes its giant glowing waves on high,
The
forest flames with blazes red as blood,�
A conflagration
sweeping to the sky.
Then all the treasures of that
brilliant state
Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre;
October, like a King resigned to fate,
Dies in his
forests with their sunset fire. |
By Walter Malone (1866-1915)
Listed January 13, 2013 |
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