SEPTEMBER comes across the hills
Her blue veil softly flowing,
Her flagons deep of wine she spills,
And sets the old world glowing.
Yon robin’s piping her a tune—
How runs his carol tender?
“I knew you once as pretty June,
When you were young and slender.
And though you’ve grown a gracious thing,
Full-blossomed, grand and stately,
I still can see a hint of spring—
Your youth’s but left you lately.”
Spring o’ the Year
“Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!”
Was there ever a song so gay,
As the song the meadow-lark sings to me
When we meet in the fields each day?
“Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!”
Then pauses a moment to look
At soft green leaves on shrub and tree,
And buttercups gay in the brook.
“Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!”
No more weather gloomy and sad,
Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!
Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you glad?
“Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!”
Isn’t it blue—the sky above?
Watch ’em, watch ’em, these mates of mine,
Building their nests, and making love.
“Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!”
Ho! I sing it morning and night,
Never were meadows quite so green,
Never were posies quite so bright.
“Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!”
Out rings his song so sweet and shrill,
Its gladness catches you unawares,
With its gurgle, and laugh, and thrill.