September

AN APPLE munched upon a giddy ladder
Floods the rash tongue with joy. The morning sheet
Draws off flushed color, soothes the fever heat
Of ripeness. Should taste be sourer, sadder,
For the lengthening shadows, earth’s decline,
The sap run back, and stubble after wheat?
Shall I hold fast to all that has been mine,
Hoarding the joy of how a day was fine
And harvest lusty? But I cannot eat
This apple sadly, nor prolong regret.
Even the emblem rose I shall forget.
For high in windy air, thoughts rush to meet
A windy skeleton. Like friends fast met,
They’ll seek that dearth which makes my year replete.