Come now, September, faithful friend,
On whose pure, light air do I depend.
Extract the harvest, the wind from fields,
A cloak against winter, a bounty yields.
Take with you, July, its rumbling rains,
August’s glare, which parched the plains.
October will come to paint these leaves,
And draw deep the breath November heaves.
Too soon December comes to brood,
Where life and dying have come to feud.
But, you September whose soul’s the pure,
May your splendid countenance long endure.
Take me along where e’re you go,
Bestow those dreams Septembers know.