|Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyts New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922.|
|October turned my maples leaves to gold;|
The most are gone now; here and there one lingers;
Soon these will slip from out the twigs weak hold,
Like coins between a dying misers fingers.
T. B. AldrichMaple Leaves.
|And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,|
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
|The sweet calm sunshine of October, now|
Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould
The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough
Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
|There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir:|
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls, and calls each vagabond by name.
Bliss CarmanVagabond Song.
|Is it the shrewd October wind|
Brings the tears into her eyes?
Does it blow so strong that she must fetch
Her breath in sudden sighs?
W. D. HowellsGone.
|Octobers foliage yellows with his cold.|
|No clouds are in the morning sky,|
The vapors hug the stream,
Who says that life and love can die
In all this northern gleam?
At every turn the maples burn,
The quail is whistling free,
The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs
Are dropping for you and me.
Ho! hillyho! heigh O!
In the clear October morning.
E. C. StedmanAutumn Song.
|And close at hand, the basket stood|
With nuts from brown Octobers wood.