Hail, brother August, flushed and warm
And scathless from my storm,
Your hands are full of corn, I see,
As full as hands can be:
And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm
In their recovered calm,
And that they owe to me.
(July retires into a shrubbery)
August
Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,
Barley bows a graceful head,
Short and small shoots up canary,
Each of these is some one’s bread;
Bread for man or bread for beast,
Or, at very least,
A bird’s savoury feast.
(August descries September toiling across the lawn)
My harvest home is ended; and I spy
September drawing nigh,
With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
And the first sigh
Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.
(September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit)
September
Unload me, brother. I have brought a few
Plums and these pears for you,
A dozen kinds of apples, one or two
Melons, some figs all bursting through
Their skins, and pearled with dew
These damsons violet-blue.
(While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.)