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Among the stubbled corn
The blithe quail pipes at morn,
And glittering insects gleam
Above the reedy stream,
At eve, cool shadows fall
Across the garden wall,
And pearly vapors lie
Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.
Ah, soon on field and hill
The winds shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together
To fly from frost and snow,
And seek for lands where blow
The pollen-dusted bees
Search for the honey-lees
While plaintive mourning doves
Coo sadly to their loves
The cricket chirps all day,
“O fairest summer, stay!” The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;
The wild fowl fty afar
Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.
Now comes a fragrant breeze
Through the dark cedar-trees,
In gentle playfulness,
Like to the soft caress
Yet, though a sense of grief
Comes with the falling leaf,
In all my autumn dreams
A future summer gleams,
George Arnold (1834-1865]
These are the days when skies put on
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886]
With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air,
Well may the earth her jewelled halo wear.
The long brown fields-no longer drear and dull
Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours. Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful,
More spiritlike than even summer's flowers.
But yesterday the world was stricken bare,
Left old and dead in gray, enshrouding gloom; To-day what vivid wonder of the air
Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom?
Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death,
A mightier wind shall strike the shrinking earth, An exhalation of creative breath
Wake the white wonder of the winter's birth.
In her wide Pantheon-her temple place
Wrapped in strange beauty and new comforting, We shall not miss the Summer's full-blown grace, Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Spring.
Ada Foster Murray (18
A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN
Burst the bridges and spread into bays;
And hills are hidden by rainy haze;
When the goldenrod is golden still,
But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder; When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill,
And slides o’er the path the stripèd adder;
When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket.
Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf; When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket,
Grasshopper's rasp, and rustle of sheaf;
When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,
And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown; When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,
And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone;
When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle
And shadows are deep in the heat of noon; When the air is white with the down o' the thistle,
And the sky is red with the harvest moon;
O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary,
If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning;
Richard Watson Gilder (1844–1909)
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
John Keats (1795-1821]
ODE TO AUTUMN
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the West,
To a most gloomy breast.