October. The passionate summer's dead! The sky's aglow With roseate flushes of matur'd desire; The winds at eve are musical and low PAUL H. HAYNE. Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, Nor praise the deep vermilion of the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Shakespeare. Love doth make the heavens to move, October 2. Let all whining lovers go hang : Tip your arrow with wit, Giles Fletcher. And it comes to my heart with a twang. As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman. Though she bends him, she obeys him; Longfellow (Song of Hiawatha). Love the strong and weak doth yoke, Marquis of MonErose. |