A few words on "October," by Robert Frost, and a version in Italian by LiteraryJoint; October (Ottobre) by Robert Frost, translated in Italian

"Autumn Effect at Argenteuil," by Claude Monet, 1873,
Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London, UK

The poem "October," by Robert Frost, first published in 1915 in the collection "A Boy's Will," captures the moment where Fall is slowly yields to Winter, and the frozen, white season is looming from a short distance. Yet, October has the power to deceive a soul, and invites to cling to a life that is still beckoning, apparently brimming with expectations. This sweet beguile is dear to the poet, who lingers in the Autumnal limbo, to nourish and soon collect the grapes, the harvest of a lifetime.

October

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
 

From "A boy's will," 1915, by Robert Frost.

Ottobre

Oh mattino gentile d'ottobre silente,
Nell'autunno sono maturate le tue foglie;
Domani il vento, se infuria tagliente,
Infieririrà  sulle tutte quante le spoglie.
I corvi chiamano da sopra le foreste;
E domani già potrebbero volarsene in stormo.
Oh mattino gentile d'ottobre silente,
Incedi con lentezza le ore di questo giorno.
Fa che il dì ci paia meno breve.
I cuori non sono avversi all'inganno che mente,
Come sai tu, ingannaci tutt'intorno.
Lascia cadere una foglia allo spuntare dell'alba;
Al mezzodì lasciane cadere un'altra lieve;
Una dai nostri alberi, solo di lontano un'altra.
Rallenta il sole con la foschia tenue;
Incanta il creato con ametiste.
Piano, piano!
Per il bene dell'uva,
Le cui foglie dal gelo sono già ferite,
Il cui frutto a grappolo altrimenti perisce—
Per il bene dell'uva lungo le mura.

Robert Frost, dalla raccolta "A boy's will" (1915).

A few words on "A Late Walk" by Robert Frost, with a version in Italian, translated by LiteraryJoint.

"A Late Walk" carries all of the signs of Robert Frost's symbolism, as the reminiscence of a life that is dwindling is brought to the dimming light of dusk.

    In the last days of Fall, the farmer-poet returns home crossing the "mowing fields." Harvest is done, life almost accomplished, and what is left to see resembles the aftermath of an ancient battle: the headless "aftermath", which also refers to the second, or last haying of the year.

    All around, the entire Nature is seemingly mourning, for the poet forebodes where its path is actually leading him to. Yet, love endures and lives on, and has the power to take a man through the secluded, lonely walls, to allow him into the inner garden - the house comforted by warmth -, and re-encounter each other again, in this life and in its aftermath.

Robert Frost's "A Boy's Will", cover of a 1915 edition, Publisher: Henry Holt

A Late Walk

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

By Robert Frost, from the collection "A Boy's Will", 1913

An Italian version:

A Late Walk (Una camminata sul tardi)

Quando risalgo traverso il campo falciato,
Quel che resta, mozzato dall'ultima fienagione,
Giace liscio come un tetto di paglia carico di rugiada,
Quasi chiude il sentiero dell'orto.

E quando giungo al quadro di terra,
Il sobrio fremere d'ali dei passeri
Che sale dal groviglio di erbe rinsecchite
E' più triste di qualunque parola.

Un albero accanto al muro si erge nudo,
Ma una foglia imbrunita che vi era ancora sospesa,
Disturbata, non dubito, dai miei pensieri,
Con un crepitio cade leggera.

Dal mio procedere mi scosto poco lontano

Cogliendo il blu ormai tenue
Dell'ultimo fiore d'astro che resta
Per portarlo ancora a te.

Robert Frost, dalla raccolta "A Boy's Will", 1913. Traduzione in Italiano a cura di Literary Joint.