September By Helen Hunt Jackson

The golden rods are yellow. The corn is turning brown. The trees in the apple orchard with fruit are bending down. The gentiles blue as fringes are curling in the sun. And the dusty pods of milk weed it's hidden silk is spun. The sages flount their harvest in many a mead nook. And astors by the brook side makes astors in the brook. From dewey lanes at morning the great sweet odor rise. For at noon the roads are flooded with yellow butter flies. By all these lovely tokens September days are here. With summers best of weather and autumns best of cheer.

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