I just received a new-to-us poem book, Child's Calendar Beautiful, that I will blog about sometime in the future (yes, I really do plan to start blogging more - will it last?).
But we read this one this morning and I liked it so thought I would share. Our September weather has been absolutely beautiful and we are admiring the glories of the garden (ripe tomatoes!), flowers and leaves. And yet, there are bittersweet moments in life that this poem captures well.
Cicada plays his viol mid the grasses,
The last shrill sound at night, the first at morn;
Late poppies grow along the garden passes,
And light winds gossip in the ripening corn.
The sluggish creek, in meadows lately greening,
Is flushed with gold and purple, either brink;
From dusty hedge the last wild rose is leaving,
A deadly pallor on her lovely pink.
With Tyrian fruit the lowly poke is laden;
Wych-hazel weaves her "thread of golden bloom;"
The wandering woodbine, like a Gypsy maiden,
Warms with its color the deep forest's gloom.
The morning sows with pearls Arachne's weaving;
The orchard peach looks out with cheeks a-blush;
From shady nook the ringdove's note of grieving
Floats far and faint upon the noontide hush.
By country roads the scarlet sumac's burning,
And over zigzag fences spread and shine
The lush dark berries, daily turning
Their loyal heart's blood into purple wine.
Down the lane path, where the cows come in the gloaming,
The thistles stand with faded armour on;
In buckwheat bloom the weary bees are roaming,
To gather sweets till the last day is done.
With all thy gift and grace, O fair September,
Some anniversaries it is thine to bring,
That flood unwilling eyes but to remember,
And choke with sighs the heart that fain would sing.
And yet, when God has filled the earth with beauty,
And given the soul a quickened consciousness,
One may go forth in pleasant ways of duty
And feel the chastening Hand in close caress.
Elliot C. True