SEPTEMBER.
The Summer's gone—how did it go?
And where has gone the dogwood's show?
The air is sharp upon the hill,
And with a tinkle sharp and chill
The icy little brooklets flow.
What is it in the season, though,
Brings back the days of old, and so
Sets memory recalling still
The Summer's gone?
Why are my days so dark? for lo!
The maples with fresh glory glow,
Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill,
The keen air sets the blood a-thrill-
Ah! now that you are gone, I know
The Summer's gone.
H. C. Bunner.