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The Old Huntsman
I've never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough
It cost me, what with my daft management,
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
To The Unknown Goddess
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my sould going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
WHY is it that the poet tells
So little of the sense of smell?
These are the odors I love well:
Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas
turn rust and go soon.
Already mid September a line of brown runs
On Its Seizure By The English Under Allenby, September 1918
Did they catch as it were in a Vision at shut of the day-
When their cavalry smote through the ancient Esdraelon Plain,
We traveled by a mountain's edge,
It was September calm and bright,
Nature had decked its rocky ledge
With flowers of varied hue and height.
Nannie R. Glass
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
The sky is silver-grey; the long
Slow waves caress the shore.-
On such a day as this I have been glad,
Who shall be glad no more.
It's September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold,
And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning's sharp with cold;
Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia blazing red
And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed;
Edgar Albert Guest
Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days
Gleaned by the year in autumn's harvest ways,
With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember,
Some crimson poppy of a late delight
Lucy Maud Montgomery
SPRING scarce had greener fields to show than these
Of mid September; through the still warm noon
The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune
Than ever in the summer; from the trees
Spring is past and over these many days,
Spring and summer. The leaves of September droop,
Yellowing afid all but dead on the patient trees.
Nor is there any hope in me. I walk
Not every man has gentians in his house
in soft September, at slow, sad Michaelmas.
Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark
darkening the daytime, torch-like, with the smoking blueness of Pluto's
David Mckee Wright
Nimrod In September
When half the drowsy world's a-bed
And misty morning rises red,
With jollity of horn and lusty cheer,
Young Nimrod urges on his dwindling rout;
[Ireland. September 5/1561]
Summer after celibacy oath
The Cistercian monk in patched undyed tunic
The poplars in the fields of France
Are golden ladies come to dance;
But yet to see them there is none
But I and the September sun.
GOLD of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon,
Canada thistle blue and flimmering larkspur blue,
Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,
Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Some day, I think, there will be people enough
In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries
Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight
Broad lane where now September hides herself
I was in Warsaw when the first bomb fell;
I was in Warsaw when the Terror came-
Havoc and horror, famine, fear and flame,
Blasting from loveliness a living hell.
From early morning-nonsense
With tubs and troughs and strain,
With dampness in the evening
And sunsets in the rain.
The Blind Summit
[A Viennese gentleman, who had climbed the Hoch-KÃ¶nig
without a guide, was found dead, in a sitting posture, near the
summit, upon which he had written, 'It is cold, and clouds shut
out the view.'-
I have not been among the woods,
Nor seen the milk-weeds burst their hoods,
The downy thistle-seeds take wing,
John Charles Mcneill
Nothing's moving I don't see anybody
And I know that it's not a trick
There really is nothing moving there
And there aren't any people. It is the very utmost top
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
William Butler Yeats
I have allowed my family to scatter,
All those who were my dearest to depart,
And once again an age-long loneliness
Comes in to fill all nature and my heart.
Voices moving about in the quiet house:
Thud of feet and a muffled shutting of doors:
Everyone yawning. Only the clocks are alert.
'It is the skylark come.' For shame!
Robert-a-Cockney is thy name:
Robert-a-Field would surely know
That skylarks, bless them, never go!
September evening. The somber calls of the herdsmen float
across the dimming village. Molten metal sparks in the blacksmithâ??s.
Your kisses, and the way you curl,
Delicious and distracting girl,
Into one's arms, and round about,