October by Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; To-morrow’s wind, if it be wild,
The crows above the forest call; Should waste them all. To-morrow they may form and go.
Begin the hours of this day slow, O hushed October morning mild, Make the day seem to us less brief.
Release one leaf at break of day; Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know; At noon release another leaf;
Slow, slow! One from our trees, one far away; Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.
For the grapes’ sake along the wall. For the grapes’ sake, if they were all, Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—