Poetry Sunday: September

Saturday was the first cool day we've had since spring. The temperature never got above 80 degrees F. and a cool breeze ruffled the leaves all day, making them fall even faster. One could actually begin to believe that autumn is almost here, playing hide and seek with us, peeking from behind that tree, winking at us from scudding gray clouds.

Autumn is a season loved by poets. And by me.

Looking at poetry of the season this week, I came across this description of September, written by an early 20th century poet, Hilaire Belloc. It paints a vivid picture of these days "with summer's best of weather, and autumn's best of cheer" and reminds us in the last stanza of why September is so special for many of us.

September

by Hilaire Belloc

 The golden-rod is yellow; 
 The corn is turning brown;
 The trees in apple orchards
 With fruit are bending down.


 The gentian's bluest fringes
 Are curling in the sun;
 In dusty pods the milkweed
 Its hidden silk has spun.


The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook,

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.


By all these lovely tokens 
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.


But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.


'T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.