SEPTEMBER. 
‘TrUTUMN clouds are flying, flying, 
Jr~ O’er the waste of blue ; 
Summer flowers are dying, dying, 
Late so lovely new. 
Labouring wains are slowly rolling 
Home with winter grain; 
Holy bells are slowly tolling 
Over buried men. 
Goldener lights set noon a-sleeping 
Like an afternoon ; 
Colder airs come creeping, creeping. 
After sun and moon ; 
And the leaves, all tired of blowing 
Cloud-like o’er the sun, 
Change to sunset-colours, knowing 
That their day is done. 
George Macdonald. 
