'TIS the ending of October;
Mid the plashing of the rain,
Bright no more, but dull and sober,
Dead leaves flick against the pane.
Sobbing, moaning, wailing, calling,
Seems the wind some erring soul,
While within I watch the falling,
Fading pictures in the coal.
On the walls in antic dances
Wreathing hands the shadows play.
E'en my owl casts eerie glances, -
Friar owl in cowl of gray.
In a pine-knot's dying embers
Summer friendships flame and die;
Ah, how little one remembers
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