September
SEPTEMBER with her brushes dipped in dazzling red and gold
Now comes to paint the valleys and the hills;
And we forget completely that the year is getting old
As we gaze upon the color that she spills.
For all that we remember
Are the glories of September,
The bloom upon the peaches and the gold upon the grain,
The apples red with blushes
From September’s crimson brushes,
The glory of the hill tops and the splendor of the plain.
September—magic artist—comes again to paint the trees,
Comes again to crown with beauty Mother Earth;
And she’ll touch with gold or crimson every humble plant she sees,
Without questioning its merit or its worth.
And the eye that looks to see
On the frailest little tree
Will behold a touch of glory where September it caressed,
And the poorest little bloom
That is soon to meet its doom
Will be nodding in the sunshine with the proudest richly dressed.
And September makes me think as I watch her splashing paints
Over every living thing underneath the skies today,
That the poorest of us here, when he goes to join the saints,
Will receive a touch of glory in the very self same way;
That the humblest of the lot
In the end won’t be forgot,
As September crowns with beauty all the works of
Mother Earth,
So the gentle God above,
In His mercy and His love,
In the frailest of his creatures will find something that’s of worth.
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