Now Cometh October - A Nut-Brown Maid, Who In Robes Of Crimson And Gold Arrayed Hath Taken The King'S Highway! On The World She Smiles - But To Me It Seems Her Eyes Are Misty With Mid-Summer Dreams, Or Memories Of The May. Opals Agleam In The Dusk Of Her Hair Flash Their Hearts Of Fire And Colours Rare As She Dances Gaily By - Yet She Sighs For Each Empty Swinging Nest, And She Tenderly Holds Against Her Breast A Belated Butterfly. The Crickets Sing No More To The Stars - The Spiders No More Put Up Silver Bars To Entangle Silken Wings; But The Quail Pipes Low In The Rusted Corn, And Here And There - Both At Night And At Morn - A Lonely Robin Still Sings. A Spice-Laden Breeze Of The South Is Blent With Perfumed Winds From The Orient And They Weave O'Er Her A Spell, For Nun-Like She Goeth Now, Still And Sweet - And While Mists Like Incense Curl At Her Feet, She Lingers Her Beads To Tell.