This is the treacherous month when autumn days br With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts. br Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts br Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze br Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, br And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, br The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts br Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays br Willidly shine upon and slowly melt, br Too late to bid the violet live again. br The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; br Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.