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 sieveThe very light from which time fell away.A showered fire we thought forever lostRedeems 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 brainWith such a tincture, such a sanguine glowAs cannot fail to leave a lasting stain.So Mary’s laundered mantle (in the taleWhich, like all pretty tales, may still be true),Spread on the rosemary-bush, so drenched the paleSlight blooms in its irradiated hue,They could not choose but to return in blue. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.