Songs and Sonnets (Coleman)/September Comes Again
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!
Yet come, September! All the old desires,
The old enchantments, at thy touch return—
'Tis in our hearts thy August-kindled fires
In deepest rapture burn.
And in our hearts the ancient melody
That Earth has yielded of her joy and pain,
Comes softly stealing, echoed back from thee
In one surpassing strain.
Still Summer waits, her mood with thine akin,
As if her love could not release its hold
Until her little hosts were folded in
Against the coming cold—
Against the cold till March once more unlocks
The gates of frost and rives the icy chain,
And June returns to lead her little flocks
Across the fields again—
Across the fields, beyond the shining hill,
When Pan plays up his pipes o' love and pain—
Put now, O heart of mine, be still, be still,
September comes again!