CEASE to call him sad and sober, Merriest of months, October!
Patron of the bursting bins, Reveler in wayside inns, I can nowhere find a trace Of the pensive in his face;
There is mingled wit and folly, But the madcap lacks the grace Of a thoughtful melancholy.
Spendthrift of the seasons' gold, How he flings and scatters out Treasure filched from summer-time!--Never ruffling squire of old Better loved a tavern bout When Prince Hal was in his prime.
Doublet slashed with gold and green;
Cloak of crimson; changeful sheen, Of the dews that gem his breast;
Frosty lace about his throat;
Scarlet plumes that flaunt and float Backward in a gay unrest--Where's another gallant drest With such tricksy gaiety, Such unlessoned vanity?
With his amber afternoons And his pendant poets' moons--With his twilights dashed with rose From the red-lipped afterglows--With his vocal airs at dawn Breathing hints of Helicon--Bacchanalian bees that sip Where his cider-presses drip--With the winding of the horn Where his huntsmen meet the morn--With his every piping breeze Shaking from familiar trees Apples of Hesperides--With the chuckle, chirp, and trill Of his jolly brooks that spill Mirth in tangled madrigals Down pebble-dappled waterfalls--(Brooks that laugh and make escape Through wild arbors where the grape Purples with a promise of Racy vintage rare as love)--With his merry, wanton air, Mirth and vanity and folly Why should he be made to bear Burden of some melancholy Song that swoons and sinks with care?
Cease to call him sad or sober,--He's a jolly dog, October!
