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. 

--hart crane