Sep- after sorrowing that 'many doe feare these 

 tember. goodly musherooms as poysonis dampe weedes,' 

 'this dothe in nowise abate the exceedynge 

 excellence of Goddes providence that out of 

 the grasse and dewe where nothing was, and 

 where onlie the lytell worme turned in his 

 sporte, come as at the shakynge of bells these 

 delicate meates.' 



Then, after some old-world lore about 'the 

 wayes of nature with beastes and byrdes' in 

 this month, he goes further afield. 'And 

 this monthe,' he says, 'is the monthe of 

 dreames, and when there is a darke (or secret) 

 fyre in the heartes of poetes, and when the god 

 of Love is fierce and tyrannick in imaginings 

 and dreames, and they doe saye in deedes also, 

 yett not after the midwaye of the monthe ; 

 butt whye I know not.' 



We hear so much of the poet-loved and 

 poet-sung month of May, and the very name 

 of June is sweet as its roses and white lilies 

 and lavender, that it is become a romantic 

 convention to associate them with 'dreames' 

 and the 'tyrannick' season of 'the god of 

 Love.' But I am convinced that the old 

 Elizabethan or Jacobean naturalist was right. 

 May and June are months of joy, but Sep- 

 tember is the month of ' dreames ' and ' darke 

 fyre.' Ask those who love nature as the poet 



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