Calendar of Sonnets (Version 2) — September

September O golden month!

How high thy gold is heaped!

The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue To every wind its harvest challenge.

Steeped In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;

And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung Her utmost gold.

To highest boughs have leaped The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late By very reason of its precious cost.

O Heart, remember, vintages are lost If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.

Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!