September

Oh, soon the forests all will boast
  A crown of red and gold;
A purple haze will circle round
  The mountains dim and old;
Afar the hills, now green and fair,
  Their sombre robes will wear;
A mist-like veil will dim the sun
  And linger on the air.
Already seems the earth half sad
  The summer-child is dead;
And who can tell the dreams gone by,
  The tales of life unsaid?
September is a glowing time;
  A month of happy hours;
Yet in its crimson heart lies hid
  The frost that kills the flowers.
Life, too, may feel the glory near
  And wear its crown of gold;
Yet are the snows not nearest then?
  Are hearts not growing old?
September is the prime of life,
  The glory of the year;
Yet when the leaves begin to fall
  The winter must be near.

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