September
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 summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.
