Helen Hunt Jackson – A Calendar of Sonnets: September

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O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung
On wands;
the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped

In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;

And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped
The purple grape,
                           --last thing to ripen, late
By very reason of its precious cost.
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost

If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!

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