A Song for September / Thomas William Parsons

A Song for September

September strews the woodland o'er
     With many a brilliant color;
The world is brighter than before,—
     Why should our hearts be duller?
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf,
     Sad thoughts and sunny weather!
Ah me! this glory and this grief
     Agree not well together.

This is the parting season,— this
     The time when friends are flying;
And lovers now, with many a kiss,
     Their long farewells are sighing.
Why is Earth so gayly dressed?
     This pomp, that Autumn beareth,
A funeral seems where every guest
     A bridal garment weareth.

Each one of us, perchance, may here,
     On some blue morn hereafter,
Return to view the gaudy year,
     But not with boyish laughter.
We shall then be wrinkled men,
     Our brows with silver laden,
And thou this glen may'st seek again,
     But nevermore a maiden!

Nature perhaps foresees that Spring
     Will touch her teeming bosom,
And that a few brief months will bring
     The bird, the bee, the blossom;
Ah! these forests do not know —
     Or would less brightly wither —
The virgin that adorns them so
     Will nevermore come hither!

~~
Thomas William Parsons (1819-1892)
from Poems, 1854

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Thomas William Parsons biography

In the Gardens of Shushan / Marjorie Pickthall

In the Gardens of Shushan

Be pitiful! Her lips have touched this cool
Clear stream that sets the long green leaves astir.
The very doves that dream beside the pool
     Sang their soft notes to her.

For her these doors that claim the amorous south,
Bound in red bronze and stayed with cedar-wood.
And here the bees sought honey from her mouth,
     So like a flower she stood.

For her the globed pomegranates grew, and all
Sweet savoury fruits rose perfect from their flower.
Here has her soul known silence and the fall
     Of each enchanted hour.

Under her feet all beauty was laid low,
In her deep eyes all beauty was made clear.
When the king called her through the evening glow,
     “O Vashti, I am here!”

Still the sweet wells return to me her face,
Still her lost name on every wind is blown.
The shadows and the silence of this place
     Are hers alone.

~~
Marjorie Pickthall (1883-1922)
from The Drift of Pinions, 1913

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

Marjorie Pickthall biography

Moonlight and Common Day / Louise Morey Bowman

Moonlight and Common Day

Listen — you very very Few who will care to listen —
And I will tell you a story
Of moonlight.
Don’t imagine because I try to tell stories of moonlight
That I am a poet — neurotic and mystic —

(Dearly as I love the things that some poets — neurotic and mystic —
Can write!)
As for me I love good food and beautiful clothing,
And well-ordered, punctual living
Behind tall, well-clipped hedges;
And practical, common-sense people.
But still ——

Let us open my casement window, Beloved,
Where the dark leaves stir in the silence,
And the sweet, wet earth breathes softly
And murmurs an exquisite word.
Any moment out into the moonlight may issue
White creatures, and elfin-formed things that we know not,
Quaintly and solemnly marching and chaunting inaudibly.
Something stirs by the willows —
Do you know what that sound is, so lovely and shuddering?
It’s the owl’s cry.
The grave, small, gray owl that in purple dusk comes sometimes
To sit on my window-sill, eyes open, dreaming,—
Hark how he is linking us in with the moonlight,
Like a horn faintly blown in blue heaven.
(Do you remember, Beloved, a night,
Glad years ago in a pine-wood,
In the moon-lighted darkness —
How the rhythmical thunder of waves on the white shore
Blended with us and our heart-beats, Beloved?)

Let us lean from the window
As if faintly-blown horns have called us to answer three questions.
Is Life food and raiment and conquest?
Is Love conquest and intrigue and passion?
Is Death a gaunt figure white-shrouded
Dealing blows out of blackness?
Let us fling back our eternal “No!” as an answer —
To the listening Silence,
While the sweet, wet earth still breathes softly
An exquisite word.

But tomorrow
I shall go right on living
As unworthy as ever of the moonlight
Locked up in my soul.

• • •

That is my story of moonlight—
No story at all, now say you?
But it all lies written
Between the lines.

~~~
Louise Morey Bowman (1882-1944)
from Moonlight and Common Day, 1922

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

Louise Morey Bowman biography 

The Last Rose of Summer / Thomas Moore

The Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of summer
     Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
     Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
     No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
     To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
     To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
     Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
     Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
     Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
     When friendships decay,
From Love's shining circle
     The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
     And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
     This bleak world alone?

~~~
Thomas Moore (1779-1852) 1805
From Irish Melodies, 1807

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

About this poem

Thomas Moore biography

A Duet / T. Sturge Moore

A Duet

'Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air,
Flowers posied, flowers for the hair,
Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare —'
'O pick me some!'

'Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,
Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper Come,
Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb —'
'O let me hear.'

'Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,
Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,
Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear —'
'O look at me!'

'Kisses sadly blown across the sea,
Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,
Bob-a-cherry kisses 'neath a tree —'
'O give me one!'

Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon.

~~~
T. Sturge Moore
from The Vinedresser and Other Poems, 1899

[All rights reserved by the author's estate - Please do not copy]

T. Sturge Moore biography

In the Shadows / Pauline Johnson

http://gdancesbetty.blogspot.ca/2012/09/in-shadows.html

A Contemplation upon Flowers / Henry King

A Contemplation upon Flowers

Brave flowers -- that I could gallant it like you,
    And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
    And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud: you know your birth:
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I
    Would have it ever Spring:
My fate would know no Winter, never die,
    Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
    But rather to take truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier,
    And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

~~
Henry King (1592-1669)
from Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes and Sonnets, 1657.

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry King biography

"A Contemplation upon Flowers" read by Selena Mohammed. Courtesy Lena Loves Cheesecake.