END of SEPTEMBER...

SEPTEMBER MIDNIGHT by Sara Teasdale (1889-1933) published in 1914

Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,

Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,

Never a bird but the passionless chant of insects, 

Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples

The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence

Under a moon waning and worn and broken,

Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects

Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,

Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us

Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction

While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,

As those who part ...

look long in the eyes they lean to,

Lest they forget them...

Photographs 2026 "September Midnight" is in the public domain, published in 1914

 

STELLAR JAYS return at SUNSET...

AUTUMN SUNSET by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) (excerpts)

The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory and splendour...

where there are solitary wings gilded by it, or some brook in the midst of the marsh...

just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump.

We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves,

so softly and serenely bright...

I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it.

Every wood and rising ground gleamed like a boundary of Elysium,

and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman...

...driving us home at evening.

So we saunter toward the Holy Land,

one day the sun shall shine more brightly...

...shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts,

and light up our whole lives,

a great awakening light,

as warm and serene... 

and golden...

.... in autumn.

Photographs 2026

 

SOMETHING TOLD...

SOMETHING TOLD THE WILD GEESE 

by Rachel Field ( 1894-1934) From her collection "Branches Green" published in 1934

(This is my favourite Fall poem...)

Something told the wild geese

it was time to go...

Though the fields lay golden

Something whispered- "Snow"

Leaves were green and stirring,

Berries, luster-glossed,

But beneath warm feathers

Something cautioned -"Frost"

All the sagging orchards

Steamed with amber spice

But each wild breast stiffened

At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese

It was time to fly.

Summer sun was on their wings,

Winter in their cry...

Photographs 2026 (Poem is in the public domain)