September

George Arnold (1834–1865)

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!