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