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The Opal Month
by Virna SheardNow cometh October - a nut-brown maid,
Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed
Hath taken the king's highway!
On the world she smiles - but to me it seems
Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,
Or memories of the May.
Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
As she dances gaily by -
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her breast
A belated butterfly.
The crickets sing no more to the stars -
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there - both at night and at morn -
A lonely robin still sings.
A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent
With perfumed winds from the Orient
And they weave o'er her a spell,
For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet -
And while mists like incense curl at her feet,
She lingers her beads to tell.