Classic Poem

October, with its red and gold,
Its magic touch on wood and wold,
Its noons so warm and nights so cold
And pleasant;
Its days are fair, its days are clear;
It is the tenth month of the year.
October, I might add, is here
At present.

But oh, my love, why should I trace
The witchery of October's face
In verse that's only commonplace,
When well you
Must know the many things that are
October's traits of earth and star?
If not, most any calendar
Will tell you.