September

September
 
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.