56
SEPTEMBER HAZE
So while fresh buddings jewel grass and tree,
And every purple stock that bursts the swathe
Of sage-green sepal must believe itself
The first to gladden a September world,
The flowers of a hundred buried springs
Watch wistfully, grey ghosts of pleasances,
Blurring the outlines of the drowsing hills,
As tears may blot those bright September greens
In aged eyes that go remembering
A golden summer when the heart was young.
And every purple stock that bursts the swathe
Of sage-green sepal must believe itself
The first to gladden a September world,
The flowers of a hundred buried springs
Watch wistfully, grey ghosts of pleasances,
Blurring the outlines of the drowsing hills,
As tears may blot those bright September greens
In aged eyes that go remembering
A golden summer when the heart was young.
