October. 
84 
Come, Months, come away, 
Put on white, black, and grey ; 
Let your light sisters play, 
Ye follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
Shelley. 
AUTUMNAL SONNET. 
Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly along the woods., 
And, day by day, the dead leaves fall and melt, 
And, night by night, the monitory blast 
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd 
O’er empty fields, or upland solitudes, 
Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 
Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. 
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, 
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise 
The soft, invisible dew on each one’s eyes, 
It may be somewhat thus we shall have leave 
To walk with memory, When distant lies 
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. 
W. Allingham. 
