Classic Poem

I to thee, O September, sing praise,
O the many-moon'd year's later child,
And the sire of sweet children, these days
That thou showest so fair and so mild.

O, how softly thy sun overlooks
The pale stubble below the hill brows,
And the pool of the low-sunken brooks,
And the aftermath studded with cows.

O, the leaves have not died of thy cold,
For thy night brings no frost in its gloom;
In thy smiles are yet buds that unfold,
And thou sheddest thy dew on the bloom.

So the while thy fine weather shall last,
And thou still hast a flower to blow,
Ere we shut out the keen-stinging blast
From the room by the fire's ruddy glow;

While as yet the green landscape is gay,
And the greensward is dry in the shade,
Call out Mirth with her children to play
Yet awhile in the leafy-tree'd glade.