The month of carnival of all the year,

When Nature lets the wild earth go its way,

And spend whole seasons on a single day.

The spring-time holds her white and purple dear;

October, lavish, flaunts them far and near;

The summer charily her reds doth lay

Like jewels on her costliest array;

October, scornful, burns them on a bier.

The winter hoards his pearls of frost in sign

Of kingdom: whiter pearls than winter knew,

Or Empress wore, in Egypt’s ancient line,

October, feasting ’neath her dome of blue,

Drinks at a single draught, slow filtered through

Sunshiny air, as in a tingling wine!

—Helen Hunt Jackson.

October comes, a woodman old,

Fenced with tough leather from the cold;

Round swings his sturdy axe, and lo!

A fir-branch falls at every blow.

—Walter Thornbury.