And then October passes In gorgeous livery, In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree. And when the winds of winter Their bugles blast again, I watch the battalions come To pitch their tents therein. _Atlantic Monthly_ _Bliss Carman_ TO A PHŒBE-BIRD Under the eaves, out of the wet, You nest within my reach; You never sing for me and yet You have a golden speech. You sit and quirk a rapid tail, Wrinkle a ragged crest, Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest. And when in frequent, witty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid, And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings. Not of a feather that enjoys To prate or praise or preach, O Phœbe, with your lack of noise, What eloquence you teach! _The Bellman_ _Witter Bynner_ FROM A MOTOR IN MAY The leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring Meet and commingle on our winding way-- And we, who glide into the heart of May, Sense in our souls a sudden quivering. What though the flesh of blue or scarlet wing Bid us forget the night in dawning day, Skies of November, sullen, sad, and gray, Once hung above this withered covering. There is no Spring that Autumn has not known, Nor any Autumn Spring has not divined,-- The odor of dead flowers on the wind Shall but enrich a fairer blossoming, And though they shiver from a breeze outblown, The leaves of Autumn guard the buds of Spring. _The Outlook_ _Corinne Roosevelt Robinson_ TO A GARDEN IN APRIL Alas, and are you pleading now for pardon? Spring came by night--and so there was no telling? Spring had his way with you, my little garden.... You hide in leaf, but oh! your buds are swelling. _The Trend_ _Walter Conrad Arensberg_ JEWEL-WEED Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay? Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch and balsam-fir, O’er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer; But here’s a magic cometh new-- A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This passionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed, That now, when days are growing drear, As summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold! Thine only, these, thou lonely road! Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pass the charmèd spot Whispers in warning:--“Friend, admire,-- But touch me not!