SEPTEMBER NOON.

Upon the warm brick walls the patterns come, Dim moving likenesses of pensive leaves; The swallows twitter round the ivied eaves Late bees in perilous petunias hum; On the moors, amber grape and bloomy plum, But here in trim back-yards the apple’s face Twinkling with dahlias in some latticed place. The stranger’s foot has gone and all the world Has settled down to Island ways of peace, Where the clouds mid-summer caravans cease Soundlessness on the hills is silver-furled! Now all faint scents and spice of full increase! The scarlet pepper pendant on its bush And late corn leaning on the farmland hush. Slow wagons trundle with the sea-grass haul, The crickets, palaced in the golden rod Begin their strumming; the horse-chestnuts fall And morning glories on the trellis nod; Marigold’s velvet turns to pungent pod. A sea of azure girds the shores around; The tawny silence mellows till the deep Steamboat whistle’s sombre-throated sound Wakens the isle from Indian Summer’s sleep Then all is bustle and the city’s stir Once more has come upon the Islander.