Far, far away, beyond a hazy height,
    The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy sleep;
Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white,
    Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep.

Now, like Aladdin of the days of old,
    October robes the weeds in purple gowns;
He sprinkles all the steril fields with gold,
    And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns.

The straggling fences all are interlaced
    With pink and azure morning glory blooms,
The starry asters glorify the waste,
    While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes.

Yet still amid the splendor of decay
    The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead,
The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away,
    And lovely Summer songsters that have fled.

And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines,
    Amid the flutter of her withered leaves,
Pale Summer for her perished Kingdom pines,
    And all the glories of her golden sheaves.

In vain October woos her to remain
    Within the palace of his scarlet bowers,
Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain,
    And weep no more above her faded flowers.

At last November, like a Conqueror, comes
    To storm the golden city of his foe;
We hear his rude winds, like the roll of drums,
    Bringing their desolation and their woe.

The sunset, like a vast vermillion flood,
    Splashes its giant glowing waves on high.
The forest flames with foliage red as blood,
    A conflagration sweeping to the sky.

Then all the treasures of that brilliant state
    Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre;
October, like a king resigned to fate,
    Dies in his forest, with their sunset fire.