LINGERING in SEPTEMBER....

SEPTEMBER MIDNIGHT ( written in March 1914) 

                                                                                by Sara Teasdale ( 1884-1933)

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, broken,

Tired of summer....

Let me remember you, little voices of insects.....

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

Let me remember you , soon winter will be upon us

Snow-hushed and heavy.....

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 2024