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SEPTEMBER

SWEET is the voice that calls
From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft 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 red 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.

SEPTEMBER

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!"

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The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar

Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

IN

SEPTEMBER DAYS

N flickering light and shade the broad stream goes, With cool, dark nooks and checkered, rippling shallows;

Through reedy ferns its sluggish current flows,

Where lilies grow and purple blossomed mallows.

The aster-blooms above its eddies shine,

With pollened bees about them humming slowly, And in the meadow lands the drowsy kine

Make music with their sweet bells, tinkling lowly.

The cicala, on the hillside tree,

Sounds to its mate a note of love or warning; And turtle doves re-echo, plaintively,

From upland fields, a soft, melodious mourning.

A golden haze conceals the horizon,

A golden sunshine slants across the meadows; The pride and prime of summer-time is gone, But beauty lingers in these autumn shadows.

The wild hawk's shadow fleets across the grass,
Its softened gray the softened green outvying;
And fair scenes fairer grow while yet they pass,
As breezes freshed when the day is dying.

SEPTEMBER DAYS

O sweet September! they first breezes bring

The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter, The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.

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GEORGE ARNOLD.

OCTOBER

IT is no joy to me to sit
I1

On dreamy summer eves,

When silently the timid moon

Kisses the sleeping leaves,

And all things through the fair hush'd earth Love, rest-but nothing grieves.

Better I like old Autumn

With his hair toss'd to and fro,

Firm striding o'er the stubble fields
When the equinoctials blow.

When shrinkingly the sun creeps up
Through misty mornings cold,
And robin on the orchard hedge
Sings cheerily and bold;
While heavily the frosted plum

Drops downward on the mold;

And as he passes, Autumn

Into Earth's lap does throw
Brown apples gay in a game of play,
As the equinoctials blow.

When the spent year its carol sinks

Into a humble psalm,

Asks no more for the pleasure draught,
But for the cup of balm,

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