SEPTEMBER, 1868 by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

AN April burst of beauty,
And a May like the Mays of old,
And a glow of summer gladness
While June her long days told;
And a hush of golden silence
All through the bright July,
Without one peal of thunder,
Or a storm-wreath in the sky;
And a fiery reign of August,
Till the moon was on the wane;
And then short clouded evenings,
And a long and chilling rain.
I thought the summer was over,
And the whole year's glory spent,
And that nothing but fog and drizzle
Could be for Autumn meant; --
Nothing but dead leaves, falling
Wet on the dark, damp mold,
Less and less of the sunshine,
More and more of the cold.

But oh! the golden day-time;
And oh! the silver nights:
And the scarlet touch on the fir trunks
Of the calm, grand sunset lights;
And the morning's bright revealings,
Lifting the pearly mist,
Like a bridal veil, from the valley
That the sun hath claimed and kissed;
And oh! the noontide shadows
Longer and longer now,
On the river margin resting,
Like the tress on a thoughtful brow.
Rich fruitage bends the branches
With amber, and rose, and gold,
O'er the purple and crimson asters,
And geraniums gay and bold.
The day is warm and glowing,
But the night is cool and sweet,
And we fear no smiting arrows
Of fierce and fatal heat.
The leaves are only dropping,
Like flakes of a sunset cloud,
And the robin's song is clearer
Than spring's own minstrel-crowd.
A soft new robe of greenness
Decks every sunny mead,
And we own that bright September
Is beautiful indeed.

Is thy life-summer passing?
Think not thy joys are o'er!
Thou hast not seen what Autumn
For thee may have in store.
Calmer than breezy April,
Cooler than August blaze,
The fairest time of all may be
September's golden days.
Press on, though Summer waneth,
And falter not, nor fear,
For God can make the Autumn
The glory of the year.

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