SEPTEMBER
Now hath
the summer reached her golden close,
And, lost amid her corn-fields,
bright of soul,
Scarcely perceives from her divine repose
How near, how swift, the inevitable
goal:
Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet
5
The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,
And through the soft long wondering
days goes on
The silent sere decadence sad and sweet.
The kingbird
and the pensive thrush are fled,
Children of light, too fearful
of the gloom;
10
The sun falls low, the secret word is said,
The mouldering woods grow silent
as the tomb;
Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,
The cone-flower and the marguerite;
and no more,
Across the river’s shadow-haunted
floor,
15
The paths of skimming swallows interlace.
Already in
the outland wilderness
The forests echo with unwonted
dins;
In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press
Northward, and the stern winter’s
toil begins.
20
Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines
Break the sealed dreams of many
an unnamed lake,
Already in the frost-clear morns
awake
The crash and thunder of the falling pines.
Where the
tilled earth, with all its fields set free,
25
Naked and yellow from the harvest
lies,
By many a loft and busy granary,
The hum and tumult of the thrashers
rise;
There the tanned farmers labor without slack,
Till twilight deepens round
the spouting mill,
30
Feeding the loosened sheaves,
or with fierce will,
Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.
Still a brief
while, ere the old year quite pass,
Our wandering steps and wistful
eyes shall greet
The leaf, the water, the beloved grass;
35
Still from these haunts and
this accustomed seat
I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light,
The blue long-shadowed distance,
and, between,
The dotted farm-lands with their
parcelled green,
The dark pine forest and the watchful height.
40
I see the
broad rough meadow stretched away
Into the crystal sunshine, wastes
of sod,
Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray,
Branches of aster, groves of
goldenrod;
And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn
45
With shadowy boulders, crowned
and swathed with weed,
Stand ranks of silken thistles,
blown to seed,
Long silver fleeces shining like the noon.
In far-off
russet corn-fields, where the dry
Gray shocks stand peaked and
withering, half concealed
50
In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie,
Full-ribbed; and in the windless
pasture-field
The sleek red horses o’er the sun-warmed ground
Stand pensively about in companies,
While all around them from the
motionless trees
55
The long clean shadows sleep without a sound.
Under cool
elm-trees floats the distant stream,
Moveless as air; and o’er the
vast warm earth
The fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream,
A liquid cool elixir—all its
girth
60
Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency,
Whose lucid purple barely veils
and fills
The utmost valleys and the thin
last hills,
Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity.
Thus without
grief the golden days go by,
65
So soft we scarcely notice how
they wend,
And like a smile half happy, or a sigh,
The summer passes to her quiet
end;
And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves
Sly frosts shall take the creepers
by surprise,
70
And through the wind-touched
reddening woods shall rise
October with the rain of ruined leaves.
|
