Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The echoic ‘some let me make you…’ quite literally interrupts the drift of the poem, making recitation messy & comprehension (by the audience) nearly impossible. This mystification, this deliberate obfuscation of sense, may well be the point, if there is one. 
 Autumn is the traditional witching season. The poet-turned-occultist & scholar of comparative myth, Robert Graves, mentions in his  The White Goddess  that the fall season marks the coming death of the year, and that holidays like Halloween are holdovers of  pagan harvest festivals , where death was celebrated with strange rituals & spirits were seen to return to their mortal concerns.
Especially when the October wind