by Arthur Cleveland Coxe

The autumn wind—oh, hear it howl!
Without—October's tempests scowl,
As he troops away on the raving wind,
And leaveth dry leaves in his path behind,
Oh, hear him shout,
He is making the old trees bare;
Oh, cruel he,
To the old oak tree
And the garden hedges fair!
Oh, a wild and tyrannous king is he
When he playeth his frolic in every tree
And maketh the forest bare.

I know that a tyrannous rod is his
When he maketh the forest bow;
But worse, far worse are his tyrannies,
For he tameth the spirit now!
Oh, hear him shout,
October is going away!
'Tis the night—the night
Of the grave's delight,
And the warlocks are at their play;
Ye think that without
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they.

The Spirits are pulling the sere dry leaves
Of the shadowy forest down;
And howl the gaunt reapers that gather the sheaves,
With the moon o'er their revels to frown.
To-morrow ye'll find all their spoils in your path,
And ye'll speak of the wind and the sky;
But oh, could ye see them to-night in their wrath,
I ween ye'd be frenzied of eye!

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