September
September
Poem
The grapes are slowly turning
To purple overhead;
The apples all are burning,
With streaks of gold and red,
The golden rod is lifting
Its flaming torches high;
The sleepy clouds are drifting
Like ships across the sky
And through the golden weather
From hill and wood and glen,
Sweet wild things sing together,
"September's come again."
Notes
Written by F.G. Sanders
Thanks and Acknowledgements
Image: Vincent van Gogh - Still Life with Apples, Pears, Lemons and Grapes (1887).
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