SEPTEMBER

Mary E. Coleridge 1861-1907

Now every day the bracken browner grows,

Even the purple stars

Of clematis, that shone about the bars,

Grow browner; and the little autumn rose

Dons, for her rosy gown,

Sad weeds of brown.

Now falls the eve; and ere the morning sun,

Many a flower her sweet life will have lost,

Slain by the bitter frost,

Who slays the butterflies also, one by one,

The tiny beasts

That go about their business and their feasts.

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