Page:Songs and Sonnets (1906).djvu/113

Yet come, September! All the old desires,
The old enchantments, at thy touch return—
'Tis in our hearts thy August-kindled fires
In deepest rapture burn.

And in our hearts the ancient melody
That Earth has yielded of her joy and pain,
Comes softly stealing, echoed back from thee
In one surpassing strain.

Still Summer waits, her mood with thine akin,
As if her love could not release its hold
Until her little hosts were folded in
Against the coming cold—

Against the cold till March once more unlocks
The gates of frost and rives the icy chain,
And June returns to lead her little flocks
Across the fields again—

Across the fields, beyond the shining hill,
When Pan plays up his pipes o' love and pain—
Put now, O heart of mine, be still, be still,
September comes again!