George Arnold |
SEPTEMBER |
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Sweet is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow And eddying come and go In faded gardens where the rose is dying. Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the clustered grapes to purple turning, And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. Ah, soon on field and hill The winds shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, While plaintive mourning doves Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember. The cricket chirps all day, "O, fairest summer, stay!" The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild-fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams Passing the fairest glories of the present! |
