September
I have not been among the woods,Nor seen the milk-weeds burst their hoods,
The downy thistle-seeds take wing,Nor the squirrel at his garnering.
And yet I know that, up to God,The mute month holds her goldenrod,
That clump and copse, o’errun with vines,Twinkle with clustered muscadines,
And in deserted churchyard placesDwarf apples smile with sunburnt faces.
I know how, ere her green is shed,The dogwood pranks herself with red;
How the pale dawn, chilled through and through,Comes drenched and draggled with her dew;
How all day long the sunlight seemsAs if it lit a land of dreams,
Till evening, with her mist and cloud,Begins to weave her royal shroud.
If yet, as in old Homer’s land,Gods walk with mortals, hand in hand,
Somewhere to-day, in this sweet weather,Thinkest thou not they walk together?