Page:The marshlands; and, The trail of the tide. -- by Herbin, John Frederic.djvu/29

 Fragrant are the orchards ripe of fruit,

And fairest the flowers of September-bringing.

Songsters seem to be wording a second suit,

So eager and so joyful in their singing.

Primroses yet are blown, and the thistle abloom,

The August-flower bright from the bud its month gone over;

Asters smile near the rushes' damp and gloom;

A sweetness lingers near the thrifty clover.

The season will not die though all the dykes

Seemed to the roots destroyed by the ruthless mower:

Where now the cattle graze, and the marsh-hawk strikes,

Are the fields of aftermath of the secret sower.