 | The Last Crusade and Other Poems |  |
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SWEET SEPTEMBER.
O sweet September, second Spring!
The wind is warbling fresh and free,
The merry brooklets dance and sing,
And music is in every tree;
The meadows gleam, the sun shines bright
On leaves that twinkle from the shower,
And fickle shade and fickle light
Are dappling through the long lane-bower.
The wind is warbling fresh and free,
The merry brooklets dance and sing,
And music is in every tree;
The meadows gleam, the sun shines bright
On leaves that twinkle from the shower,
And fickle shade and fickle light
Are dappling through the long lane-bower.
O sweet September, second Spring!
The eyes of May were ne'er so blue,
And never on so white a wing
The driven fleet of cloudlets flew;
Yon fir-tree never leant so fair
Against the softness of the sky,
For till this morn my heart was ne'er
So tuned to Nature's harmony.
The eyes of May were ne'er so blue,
And never on so white a wing
The driven fleet of cloudlets flew;
Yon fir-tree never leant so fair
Against the softness of the sky,
For till this morn my heart was ne'er
So tuned to Nature's harmony.
O sweet September, second Spring!
I love to see thy dim blue breath
Steal where thy frosty kisses sting
The freckled leaves to beauteous death;
To watch the azure dragon-fly,
With gauzy pinions levelled, rest
Over the brazen sun-flower's eye
Bending a bold gaze toward the West.
I love to see thy dim blue breath
Steal where thy frosty kisses sting
The freckled leaves to beauteous death;
To watch the azure dragon-fly,
With gauzy pinions levelled, rest
Over the brazen sun-flower's eye
Bending a bold gaze toward the West.
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O sweet September, second Spring!
I love to hear, o'er far fields borne,
When evening mists begin to cling,
The murmur of the threshing corn;
I love to see the downy peach
Sunning its soft cheek by the wall,
And lightly o'er the gray-limbed beech
The wavering shadows rise and fall.
I love to hear, o'er far fields borne,
When evening mists begin to cling,
The murmur of the threshing corn;
I love to see the downy peach
Sunning its soft cheek by the wall,
And lightly o'er the gray-limbed beech
The wavering shadows rise and fall.
I love the afternoon sunshine
That dozes on the sleepy farm,
I love the dim horizon-line
Of stubble gleaming golden-warm,
The tiny glistening gnats that dance
Translucent in the haze above;
And sweet September's countenance
Is more than answer to my love.
That dozes on the sleepy farm,
I love the dim horizon-line
Of stubble gleaming golden-warm,
The tiny glistening gnats that dance
Translucent in the haze above;
And sweet September's countenance
Is more than answer to my love.
O sweet September, when I woke
This morning, all the wakened world
Was creeping from its slumber-cloak,
And all the steaming lawn was pearled
With Nature's jewellery; each flower
Decked with a diamond; emerald zones
Around me; and above, one bower
Of sapphire, girt with opal thrones.
This morning, all the wakened world
Was creeping from its slumber-cloak,
And all the steaming lawn was pearled
With Nature's jewellery; each flower
Decked with a diamond; emerald zones
Around me; and above, one bower
Of sapphire, girt with opal thrones.
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The swallows circled light as air
Between the tawny-tasselled sheaves,
Or cast quick-glancing shadows where
The creeper blushed beneath the eaves;
I wondered, as I watched them dart
In gathering swarms about the pool,
I wondered how they had the heart
To leave a land so beautiful.
Between the tawny-tasselled sheaves,
Or cast quick-glancing shadows where
The creeper blushed beneath the eaves;
I wondered, as I watched them dart
In gathering swarms about the pool,
I wondered how they had the heart
To leave a land so beautiful.
The brooding sun warmed into birth
A myriad twinkling stars of dew;
Heaven's radiant ladders, wedding Earth,
Were scarcely seen against the blue;
The purple clematis was lit
Into a rich, transparent sheen;
It seemed a royal garment, fit
For sweet September, Autumn's queen.
A myriad twinkling stars of dew;
Heaven's radiant ladders, wedding Earth,
Were scarcely seen against the blue;
The purple clematis was lit
Into a rich, transparent sheen;
It seemed a royal garment, fit
For sweet September, Autumn's queen.
O sweet September! Thou art all
One loveliness. Where'er I turn,
'Tis beauty, beauty; the grey pall
Thou spreadest o'er the dying fern,
The blue smoke stealing through the trees,
The rainbow bounding boundless realms,
The homestead in its own green leas,
The cattle nestled 'neath the elms.
One loveliness. Where'er I turn,
'Tis beauty, beauty; the grey pall
Thou spreadest o'er the dying fern,
The blue smoke stealing through the trees,
The rainbow bounding boundless realms,
The homestead in its own green leas,
The cattle nestled 'neath the elms.
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O sweet September! 'tis more sweet
To loiter in the rambling lanes,
Singing thy praises at thy feet,
Than all the world and all its gains.
Let laurels wreathe the conquerer's sword,
Ambition hug his hard-won prize;
To love thee is its own reward,
To win thy love is paradise.
To loiter in the rambling lanes,
Singing thy praises at thy feet,
Than all the world and all its gains.
Let laurels wreathe the conquerer's sword,
Ambition hug his hard-won prize;
To love thee is its own reward,
To win thy love is paradise.
O sweet September! When I sing
Of all the loveliness I see,
Of all the joy my love doth bring,
And all thy beauty is to me,
I seem to clasp thee in my arms,
I seem to hear thy whispering voice,
And feel the heart-pulse of thy charms
Bidding my favoured heart rejoice.
Of all the loveliness I see,
Of all the joy my love doth bring,
And all thy beauty is to me,
I seem to clasp thee in my arms,
I seem to hear thy whispering voice,
And feel the heart-pulse of thy charms
Bidding my favoured heart rejoice.
The wild wet azure of thy skies
Has blinded me with happy tears,
Thy dazzling cloud-light fills my eyes,
Thy laughing breezes flood my ears.
O, if the song were only lit
By that which makes the singer reel!
And yet, if I could utter it,
It would not be the joy I feel.
Has blinded me with happy tears,
Thy dazzling cloud-light fills my eyes,
Thy laughing breezes flood my ears.
O, if the song were only lit
By that which makes the singer reel!
And yet, if I could utter it,
It would not be the joy I feel.
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