October is the best month, I do believe;
Crisp and crackling as dry leaves, or
Grey and soft as cashmere.
A time of sensory delights,
When trees fly crimson and gold
Against an azure sky; when loudly geese
Assure each other as they draft on the
Wingtip ahead; when the sharp odor of
Autumn rain first fills the air, and. in the mornings
Fog strays across the river like a ghost.
Then innocence dresses as dread Death to beg sweets,
And all the layers of black night are pierced
With knowing, candlelit grins.