Part 37

Wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.

Longfellow.

That mellow season of the year When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves Till they be gold, and with a broader sphere The moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves.

Hood.

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When the falling waters utter Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter, Taking leave of bank and brae; When the chaffinch idly sitteth With her mate upon the sheaves, And the wistful robin flitteth Over beds of yellow leaves; When the clouds like ghosts that ponder Evil fate, float by and frown, And the listless wind doth wander Up and down, up and down:

Through the fields and fallows wending, It is sad to walk alone.

Jean Ingelow.

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St. Matthew. (September 21st.) St. Matthee shut up the bee.

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The flush of the landscape is o'er, The brown leaves are shed on the way, The dye of the lone mountain-flower Grows wan and betokens decay.

All silent the song of the thrush, Bewilder'd she cowers in the dale; The blackbird sits lone on the bush-- The fall of the leaf they bewail.

Hogg.

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Summer is gone on swallow's wings, And earth has buried all her flowers; No more the lark, the linnet sings, But silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain Of Winter, ere he comes again.

Hood.

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The feathers of the willow Are half of them grown yellow Above the swelling stream; And ragged are the bushes, And rusty now the rushes, And wild the clouded gleam. The thistle now is older, His stalk begins to moulder, His head is white as snow; The branches all are barer, The linnet's song is rarer, The robin pipeth now.

Dixon.

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Nothing stirs the sunny silence, Save the drowsy humming of the bees Round the rich, ripe peaches on the wall, And the south wind sighing in the trees, And the dead leaves rustling as they fall: While the swallows, one by one, are gathering, All impatient to be on the wing, And to wander from us, seeking Their beloved Spring.

Adelaide Procter.

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THE GARDEN.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head. The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Andrew Marvell.

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