'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,
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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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