Helen Hunt Jackson

A Calendar of Sonnets. September

    THE golden-rod is yellow; 
    The corn is turning brown; 
The trees in apple orchards
    With fruit are bearing 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 dewey 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.

But none of all this beauty
    Which floods the earth and air 
Is unto me the secret
    Which makes September fair.

'T is a thing which I remember;
    To name it thrills me yet: 
One day of one September
    I never can forget.