 
Sing out thy swan-song with full throat, September, From a full heart, with golden notes and clear! No rose will wreathe thee; yet the harebell's here, And still thy crown of heath the hills remember. Bright burns thy fire, e'en to its latest ember, The sunset fire that lights thee to thy bier, Flaming and failing not, albeit so near Dun-robed October waits, and grey November. And though, at sight of thee, a chill change passes Through wood and wold, on leaves and flowers and grasses, Thy beauty wanes not; thou hast ne'er grown old; Death-crowned as Cleopatra, lovely lying Even to the end; magnificently dying In pomp of purple and in glare of gold. S. Gertrude Ford. |
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