The Opal Month

Now cometh October—a nut-brown maid, Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed Hath taken the king's highway! On the world she smiles—but to me it seems Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams, Or memories of the May. Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare As she dances gaily by— Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest, And she tenderly holds against her breast A belated butterfly. The crickets sing no more to the stars— The spiders no more put up silver bars To entangle silken wings; But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn, And here and there—both at night and at morn— A lonely robin still sings. A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent With perfumed winds from the Orient And they weave o'er her a spell, For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet— And while mists like incense curl at her feet, She lingers her beads to tell.