Classic Poem

Crickets are making
The merriest din,
All the fields waking
With shrill violin.

Now all the swallows
Debate when to go;
In the valleys and hollows
The mists are like snow.

Dahlias are glowing
In purple and red
Where once were growing
Pale roses instead.

Piled up leaves smoulder,
All hazy the noon,
Nights have grown colder,
The frost will come soon.

Early lamps burning,
So soon the night falls,
Leaves, crimson turning,
Make bright the stone walls.

Summer recalling
At turn of the year,
Fruit will be falling,
September is here.