Louise Brooks

SUMMER is passing. Lo! the first sure mark,

The golden lines September comes to trace

Across the shortening day with shining grace—

The upland yonder that erewhile was dark

Shows gleaming russet now. The elms o’ the park

Hang yellow fringes. Darting shadows chase

Along the lawn, or tremble and enlace

On groundwork glistening with a golden spark.

Pale yellow butterflies float in the air,

In mazy dances up and down they fly,

For Summer’s parting gifts to Autumn they

Bear lightly, touching here and resting there—

September’s robes are flushed with golden dye,

And magic mists enwrap each shortening day.