" Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Sep- 



Close-bosom'd friend of the maturing sun." tember. 



And yet there are other Septembers than 

 the Septembers of memory, than the Sep- 

 tembers of the imagination. For three years 

 past the month has come with rains from the 

 sea and cold winds out of the east and north. 

 The robin's song has been poignantly sweet as 

 of yore, but the dream - glow has been rare 

 upon the hill and valley, and in the woods and 

 on the moor-slopes the leaf has hung bannerets 

 of dusky yellow, and the bracken burned dully 

 without amber and flamelit bronze. This 

 year, though, there has been some return of 

 those September days which we believe in 

 while yet a long way off, as we believe in 

 May, as we feel assured of June. This last 

 June was truly a month of roses, and in May 

 the east wind slept: but last year the roses 

 trailed along flooded byways, and the east 

 wind nipped bud and blossom through the 

 bleak days of 'the merry month,' and a 

 colourless and forlorn September must have 

 chilled even that ' darke fyre in the heartes of 

 poetes' of which the old naturalist wrote. 

 There have been days of peace this year, and 

 of the whole beauty of Summer-end. In the 

 isles, among the hills, on forest lands and 

 uplands, and by the long plains and valleys of 

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