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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348156" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>September</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now hath the summer reached her golden close,<br>And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,<br>Scarcely perceives from her divine repose<br>How near, how swift, the inevitable goal:<br>Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet<br>The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,<br>And through the soft long wondering days goes on<br>The silent sere decadence sad and sweet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,<br>Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;<br>The sun falls low, the secret word is said,<br>The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;<br>Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,<br>The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,<br>Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,<br>The paths of skimming swallows interlace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Already in the outland wilderness<br>The forests echo with unwonted dins;<br>In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press<br>Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins.<br>Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines<br>Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,<br>Already in the frost-clear morns awake<br>The crash and thunder of the falling pines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free,<br>Naked and yellow from the harvest lies,<br>By many a loft and busy granary,<br>The hum and tumult of the thrashers rise;<br>There the tanned farmers labor without slack,<br>Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill,<br>Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will,<br>Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass,<br>Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greet<br>The leaf, the water, the beloved grass;<br>Still from these haunts and this accustomed seat<br>I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light,<br>The blue long-shadowed distance, and, between,<br>The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green,<br>The dark pine forest and the watchful height.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see the broad rough meadow stretched away<br>Into the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod,<br>Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray,<br>Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod;<br>And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn<br>With shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed,<br>Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed,<br>Long silver fleeces shining like the noon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dry<br>Gray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealed<br>In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie,<br>Full-ribbed; and in the windless pasture-field<br>The sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed ground<br>Stand pensively about in companies,<br>While all around them from the motionless trees<br>The long clean shadows sleep without a sound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream,<br>Moveless as air; and o'er the vast warm earth<br>The fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream,<br>A liquid cool elixir-all its girth<br>Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency,<br>Whose lucid purple barely veils and fills<br>The utmost valleys and the thin last hills,<br>Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus without grief the golden days go by,<br>So soft we scarcely notice how they wend,<br>And like a smile half happy, or a sigh,<br>The summer passes to her quiet end;<br>And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves<br>Sly frosts shall take the creepers by surprise,<br>And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall rise<br>October with the rain of ruined leaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348156" data-title="September de Archibald Lampman" data-description="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
The bounty an..."></div>
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