Sep- the south, the September blue — which is part 

 tember. a flame of azure and part a haze of the dust of 

 pearls — has lain over land and sea like a 

 benediction. How purple the western moors, 

 what depths of floating violet and pale trans- 

 lucencies of amethyst on the transfigured 

 mountains. What loveliness of pale blue mist 

 in the hollows of quiet valleys ; what richness 

 of reds and ambers where the scarlet-fruited 

 ash hangs over the unruffled brown pool ; what 

 profuse gold and ungathered amber where the 

 yellow gorse climbs the hillside and the armies 

 of the bracken invade every windy solitude. 

 How lovely those mornings when the dew is 

 frost- white and the gossamer is myriad in 

 intricate interlacings that seem woven of 

 aerial diamond -dust. What peace in that 

 vast serenity of blue where not the smallest 

 cloud is seen, where only seaward the gannet 

 may hang immeasurably high like a winged 

 star, or, above inland pastures, the windhover 

 poise in his miraculous suspense. 



But, alas, only 'days.' It has not been 

 the September of the heart's desire, of the 

 poet's dream. The advance-guard of the 

 equinox has again and again come in force : 

 the grey wind has wailed from height to 

 height, and moaned among the woods. Even 

 in the gardens the wall-fruits have hardly given 



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