Classic Poem

The days once more their dainty fare outspread;
For Nature, roused from dreams, and making good,
At length, the promise of her larger mood,
No longer doles us ouTher wine and bread
In scanty sort,—but pours for us, instead,
Her spicy, sweet September! Now the blood
Of high resolve begins again to flood
Our nerveless souls, and life wakes, duty-wed.
Nature, wise steward, thou art justified!
For thou hast kept the good wine until now,
Against this tardy bridal, this late vow
Pledging our days to toil while days abide:—
Where are the fallow fields, that we may sow
And reap the latter harvest, ere we go?