In September / Edward Dowden

In September 

Spring scarce had greener fields to show than these 
Of mid September; through the still warm noon 
The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune 
Than ever in the summer; from the trees 
Dusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies, 
No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoon 
In pallid skies more suddenly, and the moon 
Finds motionless white mists out on the leas. 
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god's lair 
A month hence, gazing on the last bright field. 
To sink o'er-drowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew 
Around my head and feet silently there, 
Till Spring's glad choir adown the valley pealed, 
And violets trembled in the morning dew. 

~~
Edward Dowden (1843-1913)
from Poems, 1876

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Dowden biography

September / George Arnold

 
September

        Sweet is the voice that calls
        From the babbling waterfalls
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
        And soft the breezes blow,
        And eddying come and go,
In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

        Among the stubbled corn
        The blithe quail pipes at morn,
The merry partridge drums in hidden places,
        And glittering insects gleam
        Above the reedy stream
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

        At eve, cool shadows fall
        Across the garden wall,
And on the clustered grapes to purple turning,
        And pearly vapors lie
        Along the eastern sky,
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

        Ah, soon on field and hill
        The wind shall whistle chill,
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together
        To fly from frost and snow,
        And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

        The pollen-dusted bees
        Search for the hone-lees
That linger in the last flowers of September,
        While plaintive mourning doves
        Coo sadly to their loves
Of the dead summer they so well remember.

        The cricket chirps all day,
        "O fairest summer, stay!”
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;
        The wild fowl fly afar
        Above the foamy bar,
And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

        Now comes a fragrant breeze
        Through the dark cedar-trees
And round about my temples fondly lingers,
        In gentle playfulness,
        Like to the soft caress
Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

        Yet, though a sense of grief
        Comes with the falling leaf,
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,
        In all my autumn dreams
        A future summer gleams
Passing the fairest glories of the present!

~~
George Arnold (1831-1865)
from Drift: A seashore idyl; and other poems, 1866

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

George Arnold biography

Summer to Autumn / Glenn Ward Dresbach

Summer to Autumn 

My leaves of green you will turn to gold and crimson, 
My ripened fruits you will give their fullest hue, 
And my scattered birds will flock to you at parting — 
But all I give in turn will be taken from you. 

Your gold and crimson leaves will be banners fallen, 
Your flushed fruits will be scattered on the ground, 
And, at the last, the birds will hasten southward 
And leave you winds and many a lonely sound. 

We dream the dream and never reach completion 
Within ourselves, then pass in things we give . . . 
Always the void of winter wraps in silence 
Things that in spite of winter wait and live. 

~~
Glenn Ward Dresbach (1889-1968)
from In Colors of the West, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in  Canada and the United States]

Glenn Ward Dresbach biography

Summer and the Poet / William Howitt

Summer And The Poet

Poet:

Oh! golden, golden Summer,
What is it thou hast done?
Thou hast chased each vernal roamer
With thy fiercely burning sun.

Glad was the cuckoo's hail;
Where may we hear it now?
Thou hast driven the nightingale
From the waving hawthorn bough.

Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;
Thou hast made the small brook flee;
And the light gales faintly quiver
In the dark and shadowy tree.

Spring waked her tribes to bloom,
and on the green sward dance.
Thou hast smitten them to the tomb,
With thy consuming glance.

And now Autumn cometh on,
Singing 'midst shocks of corn,
Thou hastenest to be gone,
As if joy might not be borne.

Summer:

And dost thou of me complain,
Thou, who, with dreamy eyes,
In the forest's moss hast lain,
Praising my silvery skies?

Thou, who didst deem divine
The shrill cicada's tune,
When the odors of the pine
Gushed through the woods at noon?

I have run my fervid race;
I have wrought my task once more;
I have fill'd each fruitful place
With a plenty that runs o'er.

There is treasure for the garner;
There is honey with the bee;
And, oh! thou thankless scorner,
There's a parting boon for thee.

Soon as, in misty sadness,
Sere Autumn yields his reign.
Winter, with stormy madness,
Shall chase thee from the plain.

Then shall these scenes Elysian
Bright in thy spirit burn;
And each summer-thought and vision
Be thine till I return.

~~ 
William Howitt (1792-1879)
from The Desolation of Eyam; the Emigrant: A tale of the American woods; and other poems, 1827.

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Howitt biography

Green / Paul Verlaine

Green

Here are the fruits, the flowers, the leaves, the wands,
Here my heart that beats only for your sighs.
Shatter them not with your snow-white hands,
Let my poor gifts be pleasing to your eyes.

I come to you, still covered with dew, you see,
Dew that the dawn wind froze here on my face.
Let my weariness lie down at your feet,
And dream of the dear moments that shed grace.

Let my head loll here on your young breast
Still ringing with your last kisses blessed,
Allow this departure of the great tempest,
And let me sleep now, a little, while you rest.

~~
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
translated by A.S. Kline
from Paul Verlaine: Selected poems in translation

[This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.]


Green

Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon cœur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu’à vos yeux si beaux l’humble présent soit doux.

J’arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.

Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encore de vos derniers baisers;
Laissez-la s’apaiser de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.

~~
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
from Romances sans paroles, 1874

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Paul Verlaine biography

Invitation to the Voyage - L'Invitation au Voyage /Charles Baudelaire

Invitation to the Voyage

Think, would it not be
Sweet to live with me
All alone, my child, my love? –
Sleep together, share
All things, in that fair
Country you remind me of?
Charming in the dawn
There, the half-withdrawn
Drenched, mysterious sun appears
In the curdled skies,
Treacherous as your eyes
Shining from behind their tears.

There, restraint and order bless
Luxury and voluptuousness.

We should have a room
Never out of bloom:
Tables polished by the palm
Of the vanished hours
Should reflect rare flowers
In that amber-scented calm;
Ceilings richly wrought,
Mirrors deep as thought,
Walls with eastern splendor hung,
All should speak apart
To the homesick heart
In its own dear native tongue.

There, restraint and order bless
Luxury and voluptuousness.

See, their voyage past,
To their moorings fast,
On the still canals asleep,
These big ships; to bring
You some trifling thing
They have braved the furious deep.
–Now the sun goes down,
Tinting dyke and town,
Field, canal, all things in sight,
Hyacinth and gold;
All that we behold
Slumbers in its ruddy light.

There, restraint and order bless
Luxury and voluptuousness.

~~
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) 
translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1882-1950)
from Flowers of Evil, 1936

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]


L'Invitation au Voyage

Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur
D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisants,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l’ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
À l’âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l’humeur est vagabonde;
C’est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu’ils viennent du bout du monde.
–Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D’hyacinthe et d’or;
Le monde s’endort
Dans une chaude lumière.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

~~
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) 
from Les Fleur du Mal, 1857

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

"L'Invitation au Voyage" animation by David Gautier

Charles Baudelaire biography
Edna St. Vincent Millay biography

Elegy in April and September / Wilfred Owen

Elegy in April and September

(jabbered among the trees)

  1

Hush, thrush! Hush, missel-thrush, I listen . . .
I heard the flush of footsteps through loose leaves,
And a low whistle by the water's brim.

Still! daffodil! Nay, hail me not so gaily,–
Your gay gold lily daunts me and deceives,
Who follow gleams more golden and more slim.

Look, brook! O run and look, O run!
The vain reeds shook?– Yet search till grey sea heaves,
And I will stray among these fields for him.

Gaze, daisy! Stare through haze and glare,
And mark the hazardous stars all dawns and eves,
For my eye withers, and his star wanes dim.


  2

Close, rose, and droop, heliotrope,
And shudder, hope! The shattering winter blows.
Drop, heliotrope, and close, rose . . .

Mourn, corn, and sigh, rye.
Men garner you, but youth's head lies forlorn.
Sigh, rye, and mourn, corn . . .

Brood, wood, and muse, yews,
The ways gods use we have not understood.
Muse, yews, and brood, wood . . .     

~~
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Wilfred Owen biography

September / Carlos Wilcox

September

The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year.
All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace;
The fading season ere the falling come,
More sober than the buxom, blooming May,
And therefore less the favourite of the world,
But dearest month of all to pensive minds,
Is now far spent; and the meridian sun,
Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,
Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues,
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red or purple of the trees
That singly, or in tufts, or forests thick
Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below,
With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear,
E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee long roving here and there
To find a single flower, but all in vain;
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side
Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps,
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

~~
Carlos Wilcox (1794-1827)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Carlos Wilcox biography

Penny's Top 20 / August 2020

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in August 2020:

  1.  A Father to His Son, Carl Sandburg
  2.  Sunlight, AE Reiff

  3.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  4.  Late Summer (Alcaics), Edwin Arlington Robinson

  5.  Ode to May, Mary Darwall
  6.  Evening on Calais Beach, William Wordsworth
  7.  In August, Katharine Lee Bates
  8.  Card Game, Frank Prewitt
  9.  At the Seaside, Robert Louis Stevenson
10.  The moon and stars are making love, George J. Dance

11.  August, Annette Wynne
12.  Stanzas for Music, Lord Byron
13.  August, Mary Slade
14.  To the Summer Sun, Margaret Wilkinson
15.  The Reader, Wallace Stevens
16.  Amarant, AE Reiff
17.  United Dames of America, Wallace Stevens

18.  Expecting Inspiration, George Sulzbach
19.  Crepuscule, E.E. Cummings

20. Dandelions, George Sulzbach

Source: Blogger, "Stats"