Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face <br />Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold <br />Invades our very noon: the year's grown old, <br />Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace. <br />The vines below have lost their purple grace, <br />And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled, <br />Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold, <br />And moaning gusts make desolate all the place. <br /> <br />Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry, <br />Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether; <br />Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free, <br />And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather; <br />Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we, <br />Singing old songs and drinking wine together.<br /><br />Hilaire Belloc<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/month-of-october/
