NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER
In the golden glade the chestnutsare fallen all ;
From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall :
The beech scatters her ruddy fire ;
The lime has stripped to the cold,
And standeth naked above her yellow attire
The larch thinneth her spire
To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.
Out of the golden-green and white
Of the brake the fir trees stand upright
In the forest of flame, and wave aloft
To the blue of heaven .their blue-green tuftings soft
But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,
As the harrying North wind beareth
A cloud of skirmishing hail
The grieved woodland to smite :
In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,
Taking the boughs and the leaves rending,
And whistleth to the descending
Blow of his icy flail.
Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,
And whirleth afar : as away on his winnowing flight
He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
By Robert Seymour Bridges,
(23 October 1844 – 21 April 1930)
was an English poet, and poet laureate from 1913 to 1930.
