In September.

—Elizabeth Cole.

—Sunday Afternoon.

MORNINGS frosty grow, and cold,
Brown the grass on hill and wold;
Crows are cawing sharp and clear
When the rustling corn grows sere;
Mustering flocks of blackbirds call,
Here and there a few leaves fall,
In the meadows larks sing sweet,
Chirps the cricket at our feet,
In September.

Noons are sunny, warm, and still,
A golden haze o’erhangs the hill,
Amber sunshine’s on the floor
Just within the open door.
Still the crickets call and creak,
Never found, though long we seek;
Oft comes faint report of gun,
Busy flies buzz in the sun,
In September.

Evenings chilly are, and damp,
Early lighted is the lamp;
Fire burns, and kettle sings,
Smoke ascends in thin blue rings;
On the rug the children lie,
In the west the soft lights die,
From the elms a robin’s song
Rings out sweetly, lingers long,
In September.


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