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September.
Count all the plumes of golden-rod,
That by the country roadsides nod;
Count all the little feathery blooms
That make the golden-rod's gay plumes—
So many times I love this sprite,
With sun-burnt cheeks and eye-beams bright,
Who shoulder-deep in yellow flowers,
Spends all the lazy sunshine hours.
The finches, dressed in gold and black,
Are always flitting on his track,
And sometimes frolic spiders lay
Their tickling webs across his way!
Edith M. Thomas.
