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October's child is born for woe, And life's vicissitudes must know; But lay on Opal on her breast, And hope will lull those woes to rest.

October turned by maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from the twig's weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.

Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs?

October is a fine and dangerous season in America . . . a wonderful time to begin anything at all.

October's foliage yellows with his cold.

No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning.

And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.