SEPTEMBER DARK.

The air falls chill;

The whip-poor-will

Pipes lonesomely behind the hill:

The dusk grows dense,

The silence tense;

And lo, the katydids commence.

Through shadowy rifts

Of woodland, lifts

The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,

While left and right

The fireflies’ light

Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

O Cloudland, gray

And level, lay

Thy mists across the face of Day!

At foot and head,

Above the dead,

O Dews, weep on uncomforted!