Not redder than her lips
This weather!
Not rosier two rose-hips
Together!
As she comes carolling
Down wildwood ways, where sing
The birds, and flowers swing
In many a feather.
Of her belovéd cheeks
October
Makes flame-flushed leaves, and speaks,—
Now sober,
Now wild,—its happiness
In gold, and on her dress
Lays many a bright caress
As if to robe her.
The wild-birds praise her eyes
Each hour;
Above her bend the skies
And shower
Around her, there and here,
Strays of the passing year,
Azure and gold and sere
Of weed and flower.
The wood-winds kiss her hair
And wonder
What flower blossoms there:
And, under
Its deeps of acorn-brown,
Her glory and her crown,
The sunbeams lay them down,
And dream and ponder.
And I—I take her hands,
Her lover;
And kiss her where she stands;
And over
Our heads the soft winds call,
And heav’n smiles down; and all
The golden dreams of Fall
Around us hover.