The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

SEPTEMBER.



BUT yesterday, all faint for breath,
     The summer laid her down to die;
And now her frail ghost wandereth
     In every breeze that loiters by.
Her wilted prisoners look up

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     As wondering who broke their chain;
Too deep they drank of summer’s cup,
     They have no strength to rise again.

How swift the trees, their mistress gone,
     Enrobe themselves for revelry!

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How wild and vagrant winds upon
     The wold are dancing merrily!
With crimson fruits and bursting nuts,
     And whirling leaves and flushing streams,
The spirit of September cuts

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     Adrift from August’s languid dreams. [Page 151]

A little while the revellers
     Shall flame and flaunt and have their day,
And then will come the messengers
     Who travel on the cloudy way.

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And after them a form of light,
     A sense of iron in the air,
Upon the pulse a touch of might,
     And winter’s legions everywhere. [Page 152]