Thursday, October 16, 2008
Late October by Sara Teasdale
I found ten kinds of wild flowers growing
On a steely day that looked like snowing;
Queen Anne's lace, and blue heal-all,
A buttercup, straggling, grown too tall.
A rusty aster, a chicory flower--
Ten I found in half an hour.
The air was blurred with dry leaves flying.
Gold and scarlet, gaily dying.
A squirrel ran off with a nut in his mouth,
And always, always, flying south,
Twittering, the birds went by
Flickering sharp against the sky;
Some in great bows, some in wedges,
Some in bands with wavering edges;
Flocks and flocks were flying over
With the north wind for their drover.
"Flowers," I said, "you'd better go,
Surely it's coming on for snow,"--
They did not heed me, nor heed the birds,
Twittering thin, far-fallen words--
The others thought of to-morrow, but they
Only remembered yesterday.