Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, OCTOBER IN INDIANA, by JOHN ROBERT MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OCTOBER IN INDIANA, by                    
First Line: Not the brown oakleaf, nor the sumach's red
Last Line: To read old stories by the winter's fire.
Subject(s): Indiana; October


Not the brown oakleaf, nor the sumach's red,
Nor bursting shell of nut, nor fallen fruit,
Nor rivulet low-sunken in its bed
Foretell alone thy passing. Winds long mute
In reddening sunset and by misty night,
And far-off twitterings of birds in flight,
Dirge the long autumn, and again lament
The coming winter and the waning light.

Not the red squirrel in his secret haunt
Can store thy tithe of bounty, nor the bee
That filled warm afternoons with drowsy chaunt
And bore beneath his wings thy husbandry,
Nor husker bending o'er the yellow grain,
Nor the lone toiler in the apple wain
Who plucks the ripened fruit from topmost limbs
And ever seeks the topmost bough in vain.

Aloft amid the trees the branches high
Are set aquiver by the passing gust,
And fiery streamers of the autumn sky
Drift circling slowly downward to the dust.
Along the level sward of fallen leaves
The lengthening shadow with the sunshine weaves,
Until across the field the rising moon
Looks on the tented city of the sheaves.

Thy leaves are falling, but thou shalt not die,
Thou seed-time for the harvest of a year.
The grain thou gavest 'neath a warmer sky
Will burgeon into root and stalk and ear;
And thy dead timbers flame to mast and spire
Upon the hearth where youth speaks love's desire,
Or elders look into each other's eyes
To read old stories by the winter's fire.





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