October arrives with cool gray skies above emptied fields, the last sheaf long gone. Bare meadows and slow-falling leaves give way to woods glowing with rich decay. There’s a dignified grief in the air—the purple hills stand solemn and hushed, the afternoon already brief and wintry. A single robin sings, the only voice in the stillness. The speaker feels no despair, but rather a majestic sadness, as though the season’s decline holds a quiet nobility.
Night then spills a pale cold moon and white mist into the hollows, transforming the peasant’s cottage and stockyard into phantom islands among the hills. No foolish terror shakes him. His harvest is perfectly gathered, so he sleeps at ease. The ghostly landscape simply surrounds his rest. What began as solemn melancholy settles into a gentle, earned peace—a sense that after the year’s work, calm is not only natural but deserved.