Today's poem is Richard Wilbur's "October Maples, Portland." Remember: rate, review, spread the word.

The leaves, though little time they have to live,

Were never so unfallen as today,

And seem to yield us through a rustled sieve

The very light from which time fell away.

A showered fire we thought forever lost

Redeems the air. Where friends in passing meet,

They parley in the tongues of Pentecost.

Gold ranks of temples flank the dazzled street.

It is light of maples, and will go;

But not before it washes eye and brain

With such a tincture, such a sanguine glow

As cannot fail to leave a lasting stain.

So Mary’s laundered mantle (in the tale

Which, like all pretty tales, may still be true),

Spread on the rosemary-bush, so drenched the pale

Slight blooms in its irradiated hue,

They could not choose but to return in blue.

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