Poem by Helen Maria Hunt Jackson (1830-1885) 

       September

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 dusty pods the milkweed
     Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,
     In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
     Make asters in the brook,

From dewy lanes at morning
     The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
     With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens
     September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
     And autumn's best of cheer.

But none of all this beauty
     Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
     Which makes September fair.

‘T is a thing which I remember;
     To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
     I never can forget.