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Quotations about September


As summer wanes, we cherish every mild dreamy day. ~Gladys Taber, "September," Stillmeadow Daybook

Noons are sunny, warm, and still;
A golden haze o'erhangs the hill;
Amber sunshine 's on the floor
Just within the open door;
      In September.
~Elizabeth Cole

Fair orchard trees wave their fruit-laden arms,
And nature smiles in her Autumnal charms.
~John Askham, "September"

September... where fall and summer meet. ~Will Wallace Harney

The Summer's gone, — how did it go? ~Henry C. Bunner

The soft puff-balls of thistles
And ground-pine turning gold
Are Summer's last word set upon
The glittering edge of cold.
~Frances Frost, "September Dusk," Pool in the Meadow: Poems for Young and Old, 1933

...some of the rarest days of the year come in September, days when it is comfortably cool but pulsing with life. ~Hal Borland

Where crooknecks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on the vines...
~John Greenleaf Whittier, "The Pumpkin"

Happy September! The world shall now transform into pumpkin everything. ~Keith Wynn, tweet, 2017

Of autumn months September is the prime,
Now day and night are equal in each clime,
The twelfth of this Sol rises in the Line,
And doth in poising Libra this month shine...
~Anne Dudley Bradstreet

O sweet September! thy first breezes bring
The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter,
The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring,
And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.
~George Arnold

Best I love September's yellow;
Morns of dew-strung gossamer,
Thoughtful days without a stir,
Rooky clamours, brazen leaves,
Stubbles dotted o'er with sheaves,—
More than Spring's bright uncontrol
Suit the Autumn of my soul.
~Alexander Smith

September is the first autumn month, marked by a general migration of the birds of passage... Butterflies sport about in great numbers, crickets and beetles abound... The spiders, both geometric and gossamer, are very numerous, and the glow-worm shines with added brilliancy... Hazel nuts and walnuts are fit for gathering... and cider-making begins... The decaying woods become brilliant with the rich tints of autumn... ~Mary Jeaffreson, "September," 1884

O fair are thy days, September,
      The dearest of all the year;
Thou art far enough from November,
      Its shadows we need not fear;
Soon after the heat of August
      Thou comest our hearts to cheer,
With ripened fruits from the buds of spring,
With golden sheaves from fields of green.
~J. Whitfield Green

One day the first prematurely senile leaf will quietly detach itself in a faint breeze and flutter silently to the ground. All through the summer an occasional unnoticed, unregretted leaf has fallen from time to time. But not as this one falls. There is something quietly ominous about the way in which it gives up the ghost, without a struggle, almost with an air of relief. ~Joseph Wood Krutch, "September," The Twelve Seasons: A Perpetual Calendar for the Country, 1949

This windy bright September afternoon,
My heart is wide awake, yet full of dreams...
With scent of grainfields, and a mystic rune,
Foreboding of the fall of summer soon...
My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake...
But even now some yellowing branches shake,
Some hue of death the living green endows:
If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too.
~Charles George Douglas Roberts, "In September"

Blessèd season! We have reason
      To give thanks forevermore,
As the wealth of grain is garnered
      And fruit mellows to the core...
~Sara L. Vickers Oberholtzer, "September," Souvenirs of Occasions, 1892

Autumn comes, but summer lingers. Here and there gleams a yellow leaf, but green is still the triumphant color, and the days have all the warmth of summer till the equinoctial winds have blown. ~Oscar Fay Adams, September, 1886

The sun was still shining but the wind smelled of rain: he loved that promise of wetness mixed with the autumn reek of leaves and molder, ripe apples and completed earth. The Equinox always roused him and gave him a sense of fulfillment at the same time: he felt as tired and contented as the ground and yet as wild with storm as the changing sky. ~Frances Frost, Uncle Snowball, 1940

The verse of autumntide is set to soberer measures than that of the other seasons. The evening of the year has come; and as the shadows draw closer with each successive month, the poetry of the season passes by slow degrees from the major key of early September to the sad minor of late November. ~Oscar Fay Adams, September, 1886

The earth is so rich in September. Apples and quinces fall from heavy branches. Cabbage, squash, broccoli, peppers, tomatoes ripen in every garden. White and blue grapes hang heavy clusters on the vines. ~Gladys Taber, "Fall," Stillmeadow Sampler, 1959

September strews the woodland o'er
      With many a brilliant color;
The world is brighter than before,
      Why should our hearts be duller?
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf,
      Sad thoughts and sunny weather,
Ah me! this glory and this grief
      Agree not well together...
~Thomas William Parsons, "A Song for September"

Spring scarce had greener fields to show than these
Of mid-September...
~Edward Dowden, "In September"

Soft-eyed September... ~William Morris

So Nature, in her fitful moods,
      Conjures her fleeting splendor
To draw from out the harp of life
      The sadder tones and tender;
And I, who know these lingering days,
      The days that crown September,
Summon the deeper thoughts, to wake
      The loves that I remember.
~Stephen Henry Thayer, "September"

This month received its name when the year began in March, and was called so by the Romans as being seventh from the beginning of the year... Our Saxon ancestors called it Gerst-Monat, or Barley-month, on account of the ripening of the grain so much cultivated by them for making their common drink, called ael and afterwards beere. ~Mary Jeaffreson, "September," 1884

      The pollen-dusted bees
      Search for the honey-lees
That linger in the last flowers of September,
      While plaintive mourning doves
      Coo sadly to their loves
Of the dead summer they so well remember.
~George Arnold, "September"

Silently the sweet September
Counts her heart-beats as they go;
And the afternoon shades linger,
Blushing to the sunset low...
~Sara L. Vickers Oberholtzer, "The Brooks Reception Poem," 1891

Dying has burned the moon
The color of September; smouldering gold,
The moon goes toward the mountains and grows old.
~Frances Frost, "New England Moon-Down," These Acres, 1932

To-day one half remembers
      With a sigh,
In the yellow-mooned Septembers
      Long gone by,
Many a solitary stroll
With an overflowing soul...
~Alexander Smith, "Autumn"

September is more than a month, really; it is a season, an achievement in itself. It begins with August's leftovers and it ends with October's preparations... ~Hal Borland

That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,
Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,
Mourned by desolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying
All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens...
~William Dean Howells

Where lurk the merry elves of autumn now,
In this bright breezy month of equinox?...
~John Todhunter, "In September"

The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year;
All mildness, soothing loveliness, and peace:
The fading season ere the falling come...
~Carlos Wilcox, "September"

SEPTEMBER:  it was the most beautiful of words, he'd always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret. ~Alexander Theroux, Darconville's Cat, 1981

Lush juices of ripe fruits, splashed color flung
From Frost's first palette, purple, gold, and red;
The last sweet song the meadow lark has sung,—
      Dirge of the summer dead.
~Alice Williams Brotherton

As we enter the final days of August (the "meh" of months), let us revel in the fact that September is almost here. We can soon regale one another with autumnal musings whilst embracing the most pumpkin-y parts of our personas. ~Keith Wynn, tweet, 2020

Each month hath praise in some degree;
Let May to others seem to be
In sense the sweetest season;
September thou art best to me...
~John Davies, "To the Month of September"

It must have been late in September. Or, perhaps, my memory has invented an appropriate weather for the occasion. ~Dag Hammarskjöld, 1945–1949, translated from the Swedish by Leif Sjöberg and W. H. Auden, Markings, 1964

All among the fading leaves
      See it shimmer,
All among the autumn sheaves
      See it glimmer;
Clear and bright, full of gold,
How much sunlight can the day hold?
~Ouina (Cora L. V. Scott Richmond), given through her Medium "Water Lily," "September Sunshine," Ouina's Canoe, 1882

Evenings chilly are, and damp,
Early lighted is the lamp;
Fire burns, and kettle sings,
Smoke ascends in thin blue rings;
On the rug the children lie;
In the west the soft lights die;
From the elms a robin's song
Rings out sweetly, lingers long,—
      In September.
~Elizabeth Cole

September comes, and... Summer thins away. ~Hal Borland

So I dreamed. Aye one remembers
With a sigh those dear Septembers;
And I start, as well I may:
I have wasted half a day.
~Alexander Smith, "Autumn"

September... dearest month of all to pensive minds! ~Carlos Wilcox, "September"

      O sweet September rain!
I hear it fall upon the garden beds,
Freshening the blossoms which begin to wane...
~Mortimer Collins, "Rain in September"

A spell of bad weather, cold hard rains, set in about the middle of September. There was a torn and anxious quality to the sky. Days noticeably foreshortened: the season when warmth lay low upon the land, smothering it, was gone. The coolness in the air gave more than a hint that the last rose of summer, tired of blowing alone, had put on its hat and gone home. ~Alexander Theroux, Darconville's Cat, 1981

Is, then, September come so soon?
Full time doth summer ne'er abide?
While yet it seems but summer's noon,
We're floating down the autumn tide.
~Eunice E. Comstock, in The Atlantic Monthly, 1873

The winds behind me in the thicket sigh,
The bees fly droning on laborious wing,
Pink cloudlets scarcely float across the sky,
September stillness broods over every thing...
Deep peace is in my soul... Let us live and love;
Suns rise and set, and fill the rolling year...
Hush! in the thicket still the breezes blow;
Pink cloudlets sail across the azure sky;
The bees warp lazily on laden wing;
Beauty and stillness brood o'er every thing.
~John Addington Symonds, "On the Hillside"

Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first of September was crisp and golden as an apple... ~J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

On the purple clusters,
On the peaches fair,
On the apples red and ripe,
On the melons rare,
Purple, red, russet and gold,
How many colors can the day hold?
~Ouina (Cora L. V. Scott Richmond), given through her Medium "Water Lily," "September Sunshine," Ouina's Canoe, 1882

By all these lovely tokens
      September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
      And autumn's best of cheer...
~Helen Maria Fiske Hunt Jackson

[O]nly a few more days of August were to run, and September seemed already to have claimed the gardens, the fields, and the skies. ~Jeanie Gwynne Bettany Kernahan, The Sinnings of Seraphine, 1906

September flits through the year
on golden autumnal wings —
it lands on the leaves of October
which wilt and drift into winter —
~Terri Guillemets

Mustering flocks of blackbirds call;
Here and there a few leaves fall;
In the meadows larks sing sweet,
Chirps the cricket at our feet,—
      In September.
~Elizabeth Cole

It was a bright September afternoon,
The parched-up beech trees would be yellowing soon,
The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun
Were letting fall their petals one by one...
~William Morris

For several weeks now I have had the sense of something about to come to an end — that old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air. But different now... Another fall, another turned page: there was something of jubilee in that annual autumnal beginning, as if last year's mistakes and failures had been wiped clean by summer. ~Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose, 1971

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