Something of what we see daily here has been caught in a poem.
September
by Helen Hunt Jackson
The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summers’s best of weather,
And autumn’s best of cheer.
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Asters
by Dora Read Goodale
The Autumn wood the aster knows,
The empty nest, the wind that grieves,
The sunlight breaking thro’ the shade,
The squirrel chattering overhead,
The timid rabbits lighter tread
Among the rustling leaves.
