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In September
by
Edward Dowden


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

This poem is in the public domain.

 

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Edward Dowden (1843 - 1913) was an Irish poet and literary critic who began writing early in life and had a particular interest in Shakespeare. A university professor who believed firmly that literature should be a routine part of life, Edward was a friend and staunch fan of American contemporary Walt Whitman, but maintained an ongoing clash with Irish contemporary William Butler Yeats over their opposing political viewpoints.

 


Post New Comment:
Dorcas:
Lovely.
Posted 09/23/2014 10:46 AM
paradea:
This is beautiful!
Posted 09/23/2014 08:33 AM
jeanie:
so many reasons to love fall ... amen
Posted 09/23/2014 07:00 AM
rksanders@charter.net:
I love to hear the trees "murmuring inward melodies."
Posted 09/23/2014 06:43 AM


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