by Emma A. Lent

Stealing softly o'er the landscape,
Touching leaves with gold and crimson,
Trailing through the fields and forests
With a look so bright and winsome,
Yet men call this sad October.

Sunshine, springlike, warm and genial,
Tempting us in half believing
That the summer is not over,
And that nature is deceiving,
And this is not sad October.

Yet in spite of days so golden,
Flowers fade and wither sadly,
With a flush upon their petals
That would tell us just how gladly
They were leaving sad October.

Humming insects cease to fret us,
And by times the sky looks leaden,
And we feel a chill of winter,
As all nature seems to deaden
In the reign of sad October.

May we hail the " King of Terrors "
With a smile as bright and cheerful,
As the foliage and the flowers.
Nature's grave has nothing fearful,
We will call thee glad October. 

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