September

The wind comes up across the hill, the wind goes laughing by. It’s time to put your bonnet on, and let your stitching lie; It’s time to take your basket up, and follow on with me, Along the road and up the hill, strange countries for to see. For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun is sweet as wine, The lake lies blue beneath us, and the leaves are thick and fine; The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds are all a-blow; The geese are flying south before the vanguards of the snow. Come out, come out across the hills! The golden blossoms call, September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and comrades all, But hearken to the ringing cry she sends from hill to hill⁠— The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, the asters all are still. Come out, come out, and leave your seam, and put your spinning by! The sweet September calls us before the flowers die. The shimmering hills are free to us, the hours are golden sweet. Come out, dear love, and find my heart the pathway for your feet!