SEPTEMBER SWEET is the voice that calls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; 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; Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember. The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest Summer, stay!" 259 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, 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. 261 GEORGE ARNOLD. OCTOBER IT is no joy to me to sit 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 shrinkingly the sun creeps up Drops downward on the mold; And as he passes, Autumn Into Earth's lap does throw When the spent year its carol sinks Into a humble psalm, Asks no more for the pleasure draught, |