O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped! <br />The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung <br />On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue <br />To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped <br />In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped; <br />And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among <br />The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung <br />Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped <br />The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late <br />By very reason of its precious cost. <br />O Heart, remember, vintages are lost <br />If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait. <br />Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, <br />Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-september/
