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Comments about MICHAEL POLLACK
October's-time, all senses keen
with quickened pulse and freshened air;
to torpid languor bid adieu,
the torrid Summer's reign is through,
when moon casts shapes with silvered sheen
all souls to harvest soon repair.
Lithe graceful grasses stoop with grain
in tawny umbered shades of brown;
each richly fruited vine and tree,
aburst with wine that's soon to be,
dried orange-yellow's hour again
fair Gaea dons mute Autumn's gown.
Take full the bounty of the land
thresh, winnow, grind, lay down your store;