September

SEPTEMBER with her brushes dipped in dazzling red and gold Now comes to paint the valleys and the hills; And we forget completely that the year is getting old As we gaze upon the color that she spills. For all that we remember Are the glories of September, The bloom upon the peaches and the gold upon the grain, The apples red with blushes From September's crimson brushes, The glory of the hill tops and the splendor of the plain. September — magic artist — comes again to paint the trees, Comes again to crown with beauty Mother Earth; And she'll touch with gold or crimson every humble plant she sees, Without questioning its merit or its worth. And the eye that looks to see On the frailest little tree Will behold a touch of glory where September it caressed, And the poorest little bloom That is soon to meet its doom Will be nodding in the sunshine with the proudest richly dressed. And September makes me think as I watch her splashing paints Over every living thing underneath the skies today, That the poorest of us here, when he goes to join the saints, Will receive a touch of glory in the very self same way; That the humblest of the lot In the end won't be forgot, As September crowns with beauty all the works of Mother Earth, So the gentle God above, In His mercy and His love, In the frailest of his creatures will find something that's of worth.