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September

  • How smartly September comes in, like a racing gig, all style, no confusion.

  • I am of many moods and many shapes; / I strip the chestnut and I tread the grapes. / The pulse of life runs high within my veins; / My hands and lips are red with berry stains. / I bid the leaves from all their dances cease / And die a sudden death. And I release / The spell of summer, so that all remember / Winter and death at beck of me, September.

  • September is different from all other months. It is more magical. I feel the strange chemical change in the earth which produces mushrooms is the cause, too, of the extra 'life' in the air — a resilience, a sparkle.

  • September is the time to begin again. In the country, when I could smell the wood-smoke in the forest, and the curtains could be drawn when the tea came in, on the first autumn evening, I always felt that my season of good luck had come.

  • September is the month of maturity; the heaped basket and the garnered sheaf. It is the month of climax and completion. September! I never tire of turning it over and over in my mind. It has warmth, depth and colour. It glows like old amber.

  • Autumn is full of leave-taking. In September the swallows are chattering of destination and departure like a crowd of tourists, and soon they are gone.

  • Shadows lie late, their long, drowsy limbs / Spread on the grass ...

    • Babette Deutsch,
    • "September," The Collected Poems of Babette Deutsch ()
  • September waves his golden-rod / Along the lanes and hollows / And saunters round the sunny fields / A-playing with the swallows.

  • September is like a quiet day after a whole week of wind.

  • Do you remember / That sweet September / When sky was golden and sea was blue, / We two together / In love's own weather / Walking at sunset the woodland through. / ... / Ah! shall we ever / Walk again in the dear old way?

  • September is a sweep of dusky, purple asters, a sumac branch swinging a fringe of scarlet leaves, and the bittersweet scene of wild grapes when I walk down the lane to the mailbox. September is a golden month of mellow sunlight and still clear days. ... Small creatures in the grass, as if realizing their days are numbered, cram the night air with sound. Everywhere goldenrod is full out.

  • September is summer without the crowds.