October (Bryant)

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow briefAnd the year smiles as it draws near its death.Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delayIn the gay woods and in the golden air,Like to a good old age released from care,Journeying, in long serenity, away.In such a bright, late quiet, would that IMight wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooksAnd dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,And music of kind voices ever nigh;And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.