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September Poems

Table of Contents

  1. In September by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  2. September by Annette Wynne
  3. September by George Arnold
  4. September by Rebecca Hey
  5. September by Carlos Wilcox
  6. September Days by Helen L. Smith
  7. September by John Charles McNeill
  8. September by Helen Hunt Jackson
  9. September by Esse V. Hathaway
  10. September by Ellen P. Allerton

  1. In September

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    This windy, bright September afternoon
    My heart is wide awake, yet full of dreams.
    The air, alive with hushed confusion, teems
    With scent of grain-fields, and a mystic rune,
    Foreboding of the fall of Summer soon,
    Keeps swelling and subsiding, till there seems
    O'er all the world of valleys, hills, and streams,
    Only the wind's inexplicable tune.

    My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake.
    I lie and watch the topmost tossing boughs
    Of tall elms, pale against the vaulted blue;
    But even now some yellowing branches shake,
    Some hue of death the living green endows:—
    If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too.

  2. September

    by Annette Wynne

    Golden in the garden,
    Golden in the glen,
    Golden, golden, golden
    September's here again!
    Golden in the tree tops,
    Golden in the sky—
    Golden, golden, golden
    September's going by!

  3. September

    In all my autumn dreams
    A future summer gleams,
    Passing the fairest glories of the present!

    – George Arnold
    September
    by George Arnold

    Sweet is the voice that calls
    From the 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 wind 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 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!

  4. September

    by Rebecca Hey

    Now the Earth yields her strength! The teeming ground
    Seems lighten'd of its curse: on every side
    The hills rejoice, the valleys far and wide
    Stand thick with corn, and harvest-songs resound.
    The garden its rich dainties scatters round,
    While lane and copse, by Nature only till'd,
    An ample store of humbler fruitage yield,
    Berries and nuts by Autumn suns embrown'd
    But, ah! amid such visions of delight,
    Those few rich tints upon the forest boughs,
    Like the fine flush, so ominously bright,
    Which on her victim's cheek Consumption throws,
    Too truly speak of wasting and decay,
    And, sighing, I pursue my woodland way.

  5. September

    by Carlos Wilcox

    The sultry summer past, September comes,
    Soft twilight of the slow-declining year.
    All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace;
    The fading season ere the falling come,
    More sober than the buxom blooming May,
    And therefore less the favourite of the world,
    But dearest month of all to pensive minds.

    'Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun,
    Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams,
    Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.
    Beneath its yellow lustre groves and woods,
    Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues,
    While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
    Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
    Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
    Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
    The yellow, red, or purple of the trees
    That singly, or in tufts, or forests thick
    Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
    Of some high mount reflected far below
    With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots
    Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
    To wander in the open fields, and hear,
    E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past,
    The lulling insects of the summer's night;
    To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
    A lonely bee long roving here and there
    To find a single flower, but all in vain;
    Then rising quick and with a louder hum,
    In widening circles round and round his head,
    Straight by the listener flying clear away,
    As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
    To hear within the woodland's sunny side,
    Late fall of music, nothing save perhaps
    The sound of nutshells by the squirrel dropp'd
    From some tall beech fast falling through the leaves.

  6. September Days

    by Helen L. Smith

    O month of fairer, rarer days
    Than Summer's best have been;
    When skies at noon are burnished blue,
    And winds at evening keen;
    When tangled, tardy-blooming things
    From wild waste places peer,
    And drooping golden grain-heads tell
    That harvest-time is near.

    Though Autumn tints amid the green
    Are gleaming, here and there,
    And spicy Autumn odors float
    Like incense on the air,
    And sounds we mark as Autumn's own
    Her nearing steps betray,
    In gracious mood she seems to stand
    And bid the Summer stay.

    Though 'neath the trees, with fallen leaves
    The sward be lightly strown,
    And nests deserted tell the tale
    Of summer bird-folk flown;
    Though white with frost the lowlands lie
    When lifts the morning haze,
    Still there's a charm in every hour
    Of sweet September days.

  7. September

    by John Charles McNeill

    I have not been among the woods,
    Nor seen the milk-weeds burst their hoods,

    The downy thistle-seeds take wing,
    Nor the squirrel at his garnering.

    And yet I know that, up to God,
    The mute month holds her goldenrod,

    That clump and copse, o'errun with vines,
    Twinkle with clustered muscadines,

    And in deserted churchyard places
    Dwarf apples smile with sunburnt faces.

    I know how, ere her green is shed,
    The dogwood pranks herself with red;

    How the pale dawn, chilled through and through,
    Comes drenched and draggled with her dew;

    How all day long the sunlight seems
    As if it lit a land of dreams,

    Till evening, with her mist and cloud,
    Begins to weave her royal shroud.

    If yet, as in old Homer's land,
    God walks with mortals, hand in hand,

    Somewhere to-day, in this sweet weather,
    Thinkest thou not they walk together?

  8. September

    by Helen Hunt Jackson

    The golden-rod is yellow;
    The corn is turning brown;
    The trees in apple orchards
    With fruit are bending down.

    The gentian’s bluest fringes
    Are curling in the sun;
    In dusty pods the milkweed
    Its hidden silk has spun.

    The sedges flaunt their harvest,
    In every meadow nook;
    And asters by the brook-side
    Make asters in the brook.

    From dewy lanes at morning
    The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
    At noon the roads all flutter
    With yellow butterflies.

    By all these lovely tokens
    September days are here,
    With summer’s best of weather,
    And autumn’s best of cheer.

    But none of all this beauty
    Which floods the earth and air
    Is unto me the secret
    Which makes September fair.

    ‘T is a thing which I remember;
    To name it thrills me yet:
    One day of one September
    I never can forget.

  9. September

    by Esse V. Hathaway

    Blaze on blaze of scarlet sumach,
    Roadsides lined with radiant gold,
    Purple ironweed, regal, slender,
    Rasping locust, shrill and bold.

    Dusty smell in field and upland,
    Sky of copper mixed with blue,
    Life intense as is the weather—
    Let's away, just me and you!

  10. September

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    'Tis autumn in our northern land.
    The summer walks a queen no more;
    Her sceptre drops from out her hand;
    Her strength is spent, her passion o'er.
    On lake and stream, on field and town,
    The placid sun smiles calmly down.

    The teeming earth its fruit has borne;
    The grain fields lie all shorn and bare;
    And where the serried ranks of corn
    Wave proudly in the summer air,
    And bravely tossed their yellow locks,
    Now thickly stands the bristling shocks.

    On sunny slope, on crannied wall
    The grapes hang purpling in the sun;
    Down to the turf the brown nuts fall,
    And golden apples, one by one.
    Our bins run o'er with ample store—
    Thus autumn reaps what summer bore.

    The mill turns by the waterfall;
    The loaded wagons go and come;
    All day I hear the teamster's call,
    All day I hear the threshers hum;
    And many a shout and many a laugh
    Comes breaking through the clouds of chaff.

    Gay, careless sounds of homely toil!
    With mirth and labor closely bent
    The weary tiller of the soil
    Wins seldom wealth, but oft content.
    'Tis better still if he but knows
    What sweet, wild beauty round him glows.

    The brook glides toward the sleeping lake—
    Now babbling over sinning stones;
    Now under clumps of bush and brake,
    Hushing its brawl to murmuring tones;
    And now it takes its winding path
    Through meadows green with aftermath.

    The frosty twilight early falls,
    But household fires burn warm and red.
    The cold may creep without the walls,
    And growing things lie stark and dead—
    No matter, so the hearth be bright
    When household faces meet to-night.