September
by Helen Hunt Jackson

The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun;

In dusky pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest

In every meadow nook;

And asters by the brookside

Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning

The grapes' sweet odors rise;

At noon the roads all flutter

With golden butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here,

With summer's best of weather,

And autumn's best of cheer.