Late October

Bulged from its cup the dark brown acorn falls, And by its gnarly saucer, in the stream’s Clear puddles, swells; the sweet-gum’s spike-crowned balls Beside them lie; and, opening all their seams, Beneath the chestnut-tree the hurry hulls Split, and, within, each nut like copper gleams.

Burst silver white, nods,--an exploded husk Of snowy, woolly smoke,--the milk-weed’s puff Along the orchard’s fence; where in the dusk And ashen weeds,--as some grim Satyr’s rough Red, breezy cheeks burn through his beard,--the brusque Crab-apples glow, wind-tumbled from above.

And under withered leaves the crickets’ clicks Seem some dim dirge sighed into memory’s ears; One bird sits in the sumach, flits and picks Its sour seeds. Thro’ all the wood one hears The dropping hickories. Round the hay’s railed ricks, Among the fields, gather the lowing steers.

Some slim, bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked, Like birds, the flowers, herding from their homes To warmer woods and skies. Where once were rocked Unnumbered bees within unnumbered blooms, One feeble bee clings to one bloom, or, locked Within it, dreams of summer’s oozing combs.

Winds shake the maples, and all suddenly A storm of leafy stars around you freaks,-- Some Dryad’s tattered raiment. To her knee Wading, the Naiad haunts her stream that streaks Through woodland waifs. Hark! Pan for Helike Flutes in the forest, while he seeks and seeks.