Poetry
September
THE moon is down. Bird planets wing
The brilliant path of memory, Seeking a lost Egyptian spring, Along the margin of the sky.
Low in the west, the lotus buds In a late flame of petals, and Eastward, a Nile-green river floods With light its dark, star-dusty strand.
These are but momentary—soon Darkness shall chide such dreams away, Gathering the stars in, while the moon Comes up her grave, accustomed way.
This is that month whose peace shall keep
Smooth the ripe hours of the night, Hushing those jasmin-scents asleep, That troubled summer with delight.
And warm it is, since gold September Winnows the harvestable grain In fields too drowsy to remember - Or springing green, or winter rain.
Here is no grief nor fevered passion, Beauty but heals, love does not hurt ; It is a month designed to fashion Fruit from the blossoms of the heart.
VIOLA GERARD.
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