September fields are comfortable fields,
They rest in the sun.
They have given their word and kept their faith,
Their work is done.

The little field mouse that comes seeking, finds
Her Winter store.
She carries grain on grain and seed on seed
Through her low door.

The Summer-weary birds that fly in flocks,
Rest and are fed.
Their broods are strong of wing, their work is done,
Their songs all said.

September flowers have the hues of Spring,
Purple and gold,
But give a sharper scent, less fine and sweet,
As they unfold.

September flowers have the scent of herbs,
Bitter and strong,
As though bright Summer gathered in her sweet
To take along.

When she went journeying upon that way
We do not know —
For none may follow Summer, although all
Must see her go.

September fields have roots of red and bronze,
Like jewels made
By very cunning workmen, form on form
And shade on shade.

My meadow is a cup of loveliness;
Small, perfect things
Are there for the delight of all who come
On feet or wings.