September Midnight
by Sara Teasdale
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
My favorite line?
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
How about you? Does a particular word or line catch your fancy?
My favorite, Cathy:
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Someone recently posted that they hated the cicadas, which made me sad since I LOVE THEM!
That's a good one too, Susan! I don't think I'm familiar with cicadas.
I enjoy listening to the voices of little insects…as long as they don't land on my food! 🙂
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction AND while I gaze. . . As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to. Oh well–the whole last stanza!
I love the final stanza as well, Marcia. I'm so ready for Fall!
Thanks for stopping by 🙂