October, by Madison Cawein

  Far off a wind blew, and I heard
    Wild echoes of the woods reply—
  The herald of some royal word,
    With bannered trumpet, blown on high,
      Meseemed then passed me by:

  Who summoned marvels there to meet,
    With pomp, upon a cloth of gold;
  Where berries of the bittersweet,
    That, splitting, showed the coals they hold,
      Sowed garnets through the wold:

  Where, under tents of maples, seeds
    Of smooth carnelian, oval red,
  The spice-bush spangled: where, like beads,
    The dogwood's rounded rubies—fed
      With fire—blazed and bled.

  And there I saw amid the rout
    Of months, in richness cavalier,
  A minnesinger—lips apout;
    A gypsy face; straight as a spear;
      A rose stuck in his ear:

  Eyes, sparkling like old German wine,
    All mirth and moonlight; naught to spare
  Of slender beard, that lent a line
    To his short lip; October there,
      With chestnut curling hair.

  His brown baretta swept its plume
    Red through the leaves; his purple hose,
  Puffed at the thighs, made gleam of gloom;
    His tawny doublet, slashed with rose,
      And laced with crimson bows,

  Outshone the wahoo's scarlet pride,
    The haw, in rich vermilion dressed:
  A dagger dangling at his side,
    A slim lute, banded to his breast,
      Whereon his hands were pressed.

  I saw him come…. And, lo, to hear
    The lilt of his approaching lute,
  No wonder that the regnant Year
    Bent down her beauty, blushing mute,
      Her heart beneath his foot.