THE golden-rod is yellow; 

The corn is turning brown; 

The trees in apple-orchards 

With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun; 

In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest

In every meadow nook; 

And asters by the brook-side

Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning 

The grapes' sweet odors rise;

At noon the roads all flutter 

With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here, 

With summer's best of weather,

And autumn's best of cheer.