IN LATE SEPTEMBER

Among the hardy marigolds

The spicy gillyflower unfolds,

And in the elm a catbird scolds

With saucy, outspread wings;

To mellow sweets the pippins speed,

The sunflower disks are brown with seed,

And round about them finches feed

In clinging, yellow rings.

The latest poppy fires are dead,

But bright as blossoms overhead

In shining sheaves of bronze and red,

The frost-tipped pear leaves show;

While from their branches blackbirds sing

Or break to noisy chattering;

And slender silken cobwebs string

The tall grass down below.

Along the uplands, faintly seen

Across the fallow fields between,

The winter wheat grows bravely green

Despite the coming cold;

And studding all the stubbled ground

In tasseled shocks the corn is bound,

The ripened ears heaped close around

In piles of purest gold.

To smoky wreaths along the ways

The newly kindled brush-heaps blaze,

And filmy veils of purple haze

Mesh all the amber air;

Among the fleeces of the sheep

The yellow sunbeams softly creep,

And sweet contentment, wide and deep,

Rests gently everywhere.