Пол Лоренс Данбар (Paul Laurence Dunbar)

October

OCTOBER is the treasurer of the year,
    And all the months pay bounty to her store: 
The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,
    And fill her brimming coffers more and more. 
But she, with youthful lavishness,
Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,
    And decks herself in garments bold 
    Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.

She heedeth not how swift the hours fly,
    But smiles and sings her happy life along; 
She only sees above a shining sky;
    She only hears the breezes' voice in song. 
Her garments trail the woodland through,
And gather pearls of early dew
    That sparkle till the roguish Sun 
    Creeps up and steals them every one.

But what cares she that jewels should be lost,
    When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers? 
Though princely fortunes may have been their cost,
    Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs. 
Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free,
She lives her life out joyously,
    Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way 
    And turns her auburn locks to gray.

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