CCXVIII: The Seven Days of October: vii

Your paintbrush has been used up very well.

We’ve all, your picture seen as dark descends,

and as the canvas marks the season’s spell,

we hark the colors that your month appends.

You, sweet October, now you’ve done again

what every year we wish that you would do:

make mysteries of meadow, hill, and glen,

make thoughts from pictures that we could swim through.

And place your painting at November’s door—

whose sepias and greys will make sincere

that spirit that you liberally pour

upon the hosts that will endure the year.

A smile leave upon us, ere you leave,

before we say goodbye to you, and grieve.