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OCTOBER, by                    
First Line: Johnnie and I, in our sunday hats
Last Line: "just for that ""riband"" to put in my hat."


Johnnie and I, in our Sunday hats,
Went to the city and looked at flats,
Turned our backs on a glory road
Where the wine-dark oak and the dogwood showed
Mosaic pattern of red and bronze
Through a leafy whispering as Nature cons
Her final lines ere The Prompter calls
And the play is done and the curtain falls.
Never an autumn seems the same
Though the pattern lies in lines of gold,
Though the same swamp maple spills its flame
Of youth in vain on the hemlocks old.

Deeds like this and De Good Lawd must
Repent Him He made man out o' dust.
To waste His priceless gift of a day
Of Indian Summer this witless way.
To sell our hearts down the city river,
Our glad free hearts that the country knows,
To hear through our winter sleep the shiver
Of woodland snowfall, "snow on snow."
Out on our hilltop the air is bonny,
And we shut-in in a city flat
Just for that "handful of silver" for Johnnie,
Just for that "riband" to put in my hat.





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