IT is no joy to me to sit <br />On dreamy summer eves, <br />When silently the timid moon <br />Kisses the sleeping leaves, <br />And all things through the fair hushed earth <br />Love, rest--but nothing grieves. <br />Better I like old Autumn <br />With his hair tossed to and fro, <br />Firm striding o'er the stubble fields <br />When the equinoctials blow. <br /> <br />When shrinkingly the sun creeps up <br />Through misty mornings cold, <br />And Robin on the orchard hedge <br />Sings cheerily and bold, <br />While the frosted plum <br />Drops downward on the mould;-- <br />And as he passes, Autumn <br />Into earth's lap does throw <br />Brown apples gay in a game of play, <br />As the equinoctials blow. <br /> <br />When the spent year its carol sinks <br />Into a humble psalm, <br />Asks no more for the pleasure draught, <br />But for the cup of balm, <br />And all its storms and sunshine bursts <br />Controls to one brave calm,-- <br />Then step by step walks Autumn, <br />With steady eyes that show <br />Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, <br />While the equinoctials blow.<br /><br />Dinah Maria Mulock Craik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/october-40/
