106
SEPTEMBER COMES AGAIN.
And now September! in whose languid veins
The wine of summer, slow-distilling, flows;
The light and glory fade—the laughter wanes.
But earth more lovely grows.
O rare September! has it all been said—
The wistful hours, the soft, reluctant days,
When Nature seems to pause with arms outspread
And heart that yearns both ways?
Upon the mellowed harp-strings of the vine
The fitful winds their soft forebodings urge,
And with the liquid murmurs of the pine
In plaintive sweetness merge.
The mountains, veiled in gold and amethyst,
Their once familiar outlines scarcely show;
Across the uplands, faint with purple mist,
The oaks and maples glow.
Those gathering mists the coming change would hide,
But in our hearts already sounds the knell.
O, never surges love in such a tide
As when we say farewell!
