September's soughing wind sighs, sad and soft,
Above the meadow-lands, where day by day
To duller tints the hues of green give way;
And where in lengthened lines, within the croft,
The rifled cornstalks lift their heads aloft,
Like soldiers serried for a coming fray;
Since they are fled, it chants a funeral lay
For flowers the summer zephyrs kissed so oft.
And yet, despite the breeze by day and night
Which, o'er the meadow-land and in the corn,
Sighs for the flowers and sorrows for their flight,
Until all things around us seem forlorn,
The month, Madonna, has its own delight —
For in September, Mother, thou wast born.