It's September

It's September, and the plantations are burning with red and gold,

Also, the evenings with dew are weighty, and the morning's sharp with cold;

Presently the nursery's at its gayest with the salvia blasting red

Also, standard asters snickering at us from their bed;

By and by in shoes and stockings are the youngsters' little feet,

Also, the canine presently does his resting on the brilliant side of the road.

It's September, and the cornstalks are pretty much as high as they will go,

What's more, the red cheeks of the apples wherever start to show;

Presently the dinner's barely over ere the obscurity settles down

What's more, the moon lingers huge and yellow at the edges of the town;

Gracious, it's great to see the youngsters, when their little petitions to God are said,

Duck underneath the interwoven covers when they tumble into bed.

It's September, and a tranquility and a pleasantness appear to fall

Over all that is living, similarly like it hears the call

Of Old Winter, walking gradually, with his pack of ice and snow,

Somewhere out there over there somewhere, and it some way or another appears like

Each small bloom needs to look its absolute best

At the point when the ice will nibble its petals and it hangs away to rest.

It's September! It's the completion and the readiness of the year;

Everything crafted by earth is done, or the last errands are close,

Yet, there is no rueful crying; each living thing that develops,

For the end that is moving toward wears the best clothing it knows.

Also, I ask that I may gladly hold my head as high as possible and grin

At the point when I come to my September in the brilliant afterwhile.