September

Now hath the summer reached her golden close,And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,Scarcely perceives from her divine reposeHow near, how swift, the inevitable goal:Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feetThe bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,And through the soft long wondering days goes onThe silent sere decadence sad and sweet.

The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;The sun falls low, the secret word is said,The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,The paths of skimming swallows interlace.

Already in the outland wildernessThe forests echo with unwonted dins;In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen pressNorthward, and the stern winter's toil begins.Around the long low shanties, whose rough linesBreak the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,Already in the frost-clear morns awakeThe crash and thunder of the falling pines.

Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free,Naked and yellow from the harvest lies,By many a loft and busy granary,The hum and tumult of the thrashers rise;There the tanned farmers labor without slack,Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill,Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will,Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.

Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass,Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greetThe leaf, the water, the beloved grass;Still from these haunts and this accustomed seatI see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light,The blue long-shadowed distance, and, between,The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green,The dark pine forest and the watchful height.

I see the broad rough meadow stretched awayInto the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod,Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray,Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod;And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewnWith shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed,Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed,Long silver fleeces shining like the noon.

In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dryGray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealedIn the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie,Full-ribbed; and in the windless pasture-fieldThe sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed groundStand pensively about in companies,While all around them from the motionless treesThe long clean shadows sleep without a sound.

Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream,Moveless as air; and o'er the vast warm earthThe fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream,A liquid cool elixir--all its girthBound with faint haze, a frail transparency,Whose lucid purple barely veils and fillsThe utmost valleys and the thin last hills,Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity.

Thus without grief the golden days go by,So soft we scarcely notice how they wend,And like a smile half happy, or a sigh,The summer passes to her quiet end;And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eavesSly frosts shall take the creepers by surprise,And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall riseOctober with the rain of ruined leaves.