September

The freshness of the autumn,
Rushes down the lane.
And across the thicket-patch,
Where heavy growth has lain.

Birds preen their feathers,
From a dewy bath.
While flowers stand in brilliance,
Along the garden path.

Seed-pods stirring in the breeze,
Hang on silver threads.
Unloosing strains of gossamer,
From hoary thistle-heads.

Butterflies go dipping past,
A gauzy, fragile thing.
While froggies at the water's edge,
Have not a note to sing.

O how we love the autumn,
T'is a joy to remember.
With blessedness to every soul,
This time of sweet September.


E.P. 1908 - 1989