Poetry - September Days

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.

September Days

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

The First Snowfall

THE SNOW had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,
The stiff rails softened to swan’s-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o’er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
“The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!”

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

~James Russell Lowell