A September Evening on the Banks of the Moshassuck

A September Evening on the Banks of the Moshassuck  (1841) 
by Sarah Helen Whitman
"Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past."
Shakespeare's Sonnets.

Again September's golden day
   Serenely still, intensely bright,
Fades on the umbered hills away
   And melts into the coming night.
Again Moshassuck's silver tide
   Reflects each green herb on its side,
Each tasselled wreath and tangling vine
   Whose tenders o'er its margin twin.

And standing on its velvet short
   Where yesternight with thee I stood,
I trace its devious course once more
   Far winding on through vale and wood.
Now glimmering through yon golden mist,
   By the last glinting sunbeams kissed,
Now lost where lengthening shadows fall
   From hazel-copse and moss-fringed wall.

Near where yon rocks the stream inurn
   The lonely gentian blossoms still,
Still wave the star-flower and the fern
   O'er the soft outline of the hill;
While far aloft where pine-trees throw
   Their shade athwart the sunset glow,
Thing vapors cloud the illumined air
   And parting day-light lingers there.

But ah, no longer thou art near
   This varied loveliness to see,
And I, though fondly lingering here
   To-night can only think on thee--
The flowers they gently hand caressed
   Still lie unwithered on my breast,
And still thy footsteps print the short
   Where thou and I may rove no more.

Again I hear the murmuring fall
   Of water from some distant dell,
The beetle's hum, the cricket's call,
   And, far away, that evening bell--
Again, again those sounds I hear,
   But oh, how desolate and drear
They seem to night--how like a knell
   The music of that evening bell.

Again the new moon in the west,
   Scarce seen upon yon golden sky,
Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest
   With one pale planet trembling night,
And beautiful her pearly light
   As when we blessed its beams last night,
But thou art on the far blue see,
   And I can only think on thee.