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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!