October poem by SHM Byers
THERE ! if W H E R E I is of October comes adown the lane, She is the Poet of the year, Her's is the tenderest refrain Of sweet farewells and partings near. "Come to the woods," she calls, she calls, "Tired city souls, come, and be glad, Look where the hawthorn berry falls, See yonder hills in glory clad." "See swinging vines of green and gold, And sumac bushes, burning red, And Indian summer rnists that fold / The sunsets in their ambient bed." "Drink of the soft exultant air, Taste on thy lips fond nature's kiss,-Immortal moment, thou shalt share A touch--a thrill of heaven's bliss." --S. H. M. Byers.