IN OCTOBER
IN a shower of ruddy gold
From a thinning tree
Jove comes down.
Naked, brown,
The earth lies Danae.
Still she lies with hushed breath;
Through each dreaming clod
Runs the fire
Of desire,
Passion of a god.
Danae lies in her dark tower.
On a March hillside
Springs the wheat—
There the feet
Of young Perseus stride.