WHAT SAITH SEPTEMBER? 



FAIR month, truly golden 

 fair, spiced with breath of the 

 orchards, the vineyards' winy 

 smell. Now springing root, 

 now swelling bud, now waking 

 seed, make answer for the ten talents, the 

 five, the one, wherewith spring saw them 

 laden whereto summer brought usufruct. 

 Or great Qr small, the tale of them is made 

 up. Woe to the land if frost, if drought, 

 have left it lank and lean ! 



Come away to the thicket where the mus- 

 cadine trails free. A rampant vine, climb- 

 ing, sprawling, 



" The silver morns, the burning noons, 

 Lie tranced amid its bright festoons." 



Up under them, all about you, see by twos, 

 by threes, by fives the sweet, rough-rinded 

 fruit, twice the bigness of your thumb's 

 end, thick- dusted with blue- black bloom. 

 The smell of it fills the wood-side a deep 

 musk odor, heavy, palpable with yet a 



