Henry Augustin Beers (1847–1926)

WHAT honey in the year’s last flowers can hide,

These little yellow butterflies may know:

With falling leaves they waver to and fro,

Or on the swinging tops of asters ride.

But I am weary of the summer’s pride

And sick September’s simulated show:

Why do the colder winds delay to blow

And bring the pleasant hours that we abide;

To curtained alcove and sweet household talks,

Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars,

Returning late from autumn evening walks

Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars

Hangs low between the withered mullein stalks,

And upward throngs the host of winter stars?