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Late September

 Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a'mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches! From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

by Amy Lowell
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