October
The trees that skirt the running stream
Hang out their banners bright,
And those that catch the sun’s last gleam,
Reflect its golden light.
While underneath, upon the ground,
Of moss and fallen leaves,
A richer carpet may be found,
Than loom of Orient weaves.
Crimson and gold, amber and brown,
Garnet and orange, and red,
Ruby and green; soft they drop down
From outstretched hands o’er head.
* * * * * *
And often when days of autumn come,
I think how the wise man said,
That gray hair, (whitn’d by frosts of time)
Is a crown to the aged head.
And though we rejoice in woods and fields,
When the beauties of spring appear,
Yet the fading leaves that autumn yields,
Is the crown of the dying year.
(-- Fragments, by M.A.R.B; Waukon, Iowa, 1916)
