SUMMER fervors slacken; Sumac torches dim; There`s bronze upon the bracken; September has a whim For carmine, pearl and amber Touches on her green; Busy squirrels clamber; Restless birds convene. Where Indian pipe still blanches, Where hoary lichen flakes Forest trunks and branches, The golden foxglove makes A mimic wood that tosses Warning to the trees, Then droops upon the mosses, Heavy with bloom and bees. What rumbelow of revel Deep in those honey-jars! A saffron moth, with level And languid motion, stars The air until he settles At the last pink-clover inn, Ignoring prouder petals That would his favor win. Among those wildwood vagrants I strolled, alone no more. Was it the sweet-fern fragrance That stirred a long-sealed door Of Time`s enchanted tower? A little maid ran free And for one sunny hour My childhood played with me.SourceThe script ran 0 seconds.
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