Hold on, oh my dear late sweet
September; will you sweep
up on gusty wheels of cool
fragrant night, dusked orbs
of lunarcaught midnight?
Let lips be the cry of your
house, many millions of sweet
spicy leaves, turning again and again
in little cradles, staining their bodies—
swaddle them, threaded autumn!
And you will kiss my hands, you
ruddy-cheeked October, you spinning (you
soaring, you sigh-humming before you rush) up
the embowed aisle of the world to bed
and you
will certainly whisper
gold
under the shut eyes of the sky.
