Riley Farm-Rhymes

SEPTEMBER DARK

     I

     The air falls chill;
     The whippoorwill
     Pipes lonesomely behind the hill:
     The dusk grows dense,
     The silence tense;
     And lo, the katydids commence.

     II

     Through shadowy rifts
     Of woodland, lifts
     The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
     While left and right
     The fireflies' light
     Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

     III

     O Cloudland, gray
     And level, lay
     Thy mists across the face of Day!
     At foot and head,
     Above the dead,
     O Dews, weep on uncomforted!