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About this Poem 

“October-November” was published in A Pagan Anthology (Pagan Publishing Co., 1918).

October-November

Indian-summer-sun
With crimson feathers whips away the mists,—
Dives through the filter of trellises
And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats.
 
Now gold and purple scintillate
On trees that seem dancing
In delirium;
Then the moon
In a mad orange flare 
Floods the grape-hung night.
 

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Hart Crane

Hart Crane

Born on July 21, 1899, in Garrettsville, Ohio, Harold Hart Crane began writing poetry in his early teenage years.

by this poet

poem

There are no stars tonight 
But those of memory. 
Yet how much room for memory there is 
In the loose girdle of soft rain. 

There is even room enough 
For the letters of my mother’s mother, 
Elizabeth, 
That have been pressed so long 
Into a corner of the roof
poem

The apple on its bough is her desire,—
Shining suspension, mimic of the sun.
The bough has caught her breath up, and her voice,
Dumbly articulate in the slant and rise
Of branch on branch above her, blurs her eyes.
She is prisoner of the tree and its green fingers.

And so she comes to

poem
—And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;

Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose