Hello and welcome to the daily poem. I'm Heidi White filling in for David Kern and today is Friday October 2nd.

As a reminder, David will be back very soon with poetry regularly for you. But right now he's in the middle of the move and so I'm filling in for him for a few days while he settles into his new home and his new endeavors as the current family,

send your thoughts and prayers his way. Today I'm going to read for you a poem by Alice Carey,

a 19th century American poet, born near Cincinnati, Ohio. And she and her sister, Phoebe,

were very close growing up. They were homeschooled by an older

sister. And they loved the classics. They read voraciously, the literary classics. And they tried

their hand at writing poetry themselves. They published a work of poetry in 1850 called Poems of Alice and Phoebe Carey upon being noticed

by Edgar Allan Poe and John Greenleave-Widier. And after the publication of that book,

they moved to New York together and they began a career and a life amongst the literary

elite in New York City.

And the poem I'm going to read for you today by Alice Carey is called Autumn, and this is how it goes.

Shorter and shorter now, the twilight clips, the days, as though the sunset gates they crowd,

and summer from her golden collar slips

and strays through stubble fields and moans aloud.

Save wind by fits the warmer air deceives

and stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower.

She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves

and tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind whose tender whisper in the May set all the young blooms listening through the grove,

sits rustling in the faded boughs today and makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her tire of red,

the mullin stalks, its yellow stars have lost,

...