OCTOBER
By T. A. Daly
Come, forsake your city street!Come to God’s own fields and meet October.Not the lean, unkempt and brownCounterfeit that haunts the town,Pointing, like a thing of gloom,At dead summer in her tomb;Reading in each fallen leafNothing but regret and grief.Come out, where, beneath the blue,You may frolic with the true October.Call his name and mark the sound,Opulent and full and round: “October.”Come, and gather from his handLavish largesse of the land;Read in his prophetic eyes,Clear as skies of paradise,Not of summer days that died,But of summer fructified!Hear, O soul, his message sweet.Come to God’s own fields and meet October.
Come, forsake your city street!Come to God’s own fields and meet October.Not the lean, unkempt and brownCounterfeit that haunts the town,Pointing, like a thing of gloom,At dead summer in her tomb;Reading in each fallen leafNothing but regret and grief.Come out, where, beneath the blue,You may frolic with the true October.Call his name and mark the sound,Opulent and full and round: “October.”Come, and gather from his handLavish largesse of the land;Read in his prophetic eyes,Clear as skies of paradise,Not of summer days that died,But of summer fructified!Hear, O soul, his message sweet.Come to God’s own fields and meet October.
Come, forsake your city street!Come to God’s own fields and meet October.Not the lean, unkempt and brownCounterfeit that haunts the town,Pointing, like a thing of gloom,At dead summer in her tomb;Reading in each fallen leafNothing but regret and grief.Come out, where, beneath the blue,You may frolic with the true October.
Come, forsake your city street!
Come to God’s own fields and meet October.
Not the lean, unkempt and brown
Counterfeit that haunts the town,
Pointing, like a thing of gloom,
At dead summer in her tomb;
Reading in each fallen leaf
Nothing but regret and grief.
Come out, where, beneath the blue,
You may frolic with the true October.
Call his name and mark the sound,Opulent and full and round: “October.”Come, and gather from his handLavish largesse of the land;Read in his prophetic eyes,Clear as skies of paradise,Not of summer days that died,But of summer fructified!Hear, O soul, his message sweet.Come to God’s own fields and meet October.
Call his name and mark the sound,
Opulent and full and round: “October.”
Come, and gather from his hand
Lavish largesse of the land;
Read in his prophetic eyes,
Clear as skies of paradise,
Not of summer days that died,
But of summer fructified!
Hear, O soul, his message sweet.
Come to God’s own fields and meet October.