  Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean Pipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green. O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake! See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake! Mark the warm October haze! Mark the splendor of the days! And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays! See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow; If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low— “We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.” “Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less. Share my beauty and my cheer While we rest together here, In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.” All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace, All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face; And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass, While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass, O the warm October haze! O the splendor of the days! O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays! —Jean Blewett. |
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