When my hills stand ablaze with gold and red,
And I can hear the harsh-voiced leader cry
As wild geese, like a necklace on the sky,
Are seen for a brief moment overhead,
Then I remember what my lover said.
No bird of Spring, however joyously
Singing arpeggios on a lilac tree,
Can speak to me so plainly of the dead.
October, bringing gaudy mysteries,
With smell of burning leaves and dripping sound
As frost freed nuts come dropping to the ground,
With late, red apples glowing on the trees
Like lanterns at some feast of memories,
The spell of death and silence has unbound.
— Louise Driscoll