October's poem: The crows above the forest call; To-morrow they may form and go.

zvuv

Active Member
Every year at this time, I like to read this poem by Frost.

O [SIZE=-1]HUSHED[/SIZE] October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow’s wind, if it be wild,Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;[SIZE=-2] 5[/SIZE]
To-morrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,[SIZE=-2] 10[/SIZE]
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;[SIZE=-2] 15[/SIZE]
Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—[SIZE=-2] 20[/SIZE]
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
 
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