O month of fairer, rarer days
Than Summer’s best have been;
When skies at noon are burnished blue,
And winds at evening keen;
When tangled, tardy-blooming things
From wild waste places peer,
And drooping golden grain-heads tell
That harvest-time is near.
Though Autumn tints amid the green
Are gleaming, here and there,
And spicy Autumn odors float
Like incense on the air,
And sounds we mark as Autumn’s own
Her nearing steps betray,
In gracious mood she seems to stand
And bid the Summer stay.
Though ‘neath the trees, with fallen leaves
The sward be lightly strown,
And nests deserted tell the tale
Of summer bird-folk flown;
Though white with frost the lowlands lie
When lifts the morning haze,
Still there’s a charm in every hour
Of sweet September days.