In July harvest is begun,
In August hotly shines the sun.
September turns the green leaves brown,
October winds then shake them down.
November fields are brown and sere,
December comes and ends the year.
[FOR THE GIRLS]
My fairest child, I have no song to give you,
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray.
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day:—
Be good, sweet maid,
And let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make life, death, and that vast forever,
One grand, sweet song.
—Charles Kingsley.