Classic Poem

There are twelve months throughout the year,
From January to December—
And the primest month of all the twelve
Is the merry month of September!
Then apples so red
Hang overhead,
And nuts ripe-brown
Come showering down
In the bountiful days of September!

There are flowers enough in the summer-time,
More flowers than I can remember—
But none with the purple, gold, and red
That dye the flowers of September!
The gorgeous flowers of September!
And the sun looks through
A clearer blue,
And the moon at night
Sheds a clearer light
On the beautiful flowers of September!

The poor too often go scant and bare,
But it glads my soul to remember
That 'tis harvest-time throughout the land
In the bountiful month of September!
Oh! the good, kind month of September!
It giveth the poor
The growth of the moor;
And young and old
'Mong sheaves of gold
Go gleaning in rich September!