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TO OCTOBER. Thou comest mildly beautiful,
All passionless and cold, Hanging a white veil o'er the flowers
In many a sparkling fold.
' The greenness of the forest gay At thy approach has fled, And a faint line of dull decay Now lingers in its stead.
The vine that o'er our casement droops
Is tangled, sear, and dry; And rustles with a mournful sound
As thy cold breath goes by.
And in the heart, 0! in the heart,
Affection's wither'd leaves Are stin-'d by mem'ries deep and strong.
Like vines around our eaves.
The lov'd, the lost, the beautiful,
Their mem'ry steals along, Making the heart and eyes o'erflow
As wails thy dirge-like song.
Yet pass along! we ask thee not
To linger in thy track: Pass on—a most refulgent spring
Shall call the lost flowers back.