Septembers himmel er så blå,
dens skyer lyser hvide,
og lydt vi hører lærken slå
som for ved forårstide.
Den unge rug af mulden gror
med grønne lyse klinger,
men storken længst af lande for
med sol på sine vinger.
Der er en søndagsstille ro
imellem træ'r og tage,
en munter glæde ved at gro,
som var det sommerdage.
Og koen rusker i sit græs
med saften om sin mule,
mens bonden kører hjem med læs
der lyser solskinsgule.
Hver stubbet mark, vi stirrer på,
står brun og gul og gylden,
og røn star rød og slaen blå,
og purpursort står hylden.
Og georginer spraglet gror
blandt asters i vor have,
sa rig er årets sidste flor:
oktobers offergave.
De røde æbler løsner let
fra træets trætte kviste,
Snart lysner kronens bladenet,
og hvert et løv må briste.
Når aftensolen på sin flugt
bag sorte grene svinder,
om årets sidste røde frugt
den tungt og mildt os minder.
At flyve som et forårsfrø
for sommerblomst at blive
er kun at visne for at dø,
kan ingen frugt du give.
Hvis modenhedens milde magt
af livet selv du lærte,
da slår bag falmet rosendragt
dit røde hybenhjerte.
September’s skies are tall and blue,
its clouds gleam white and drifting,
and loudly trills the lark, anew
its springtime song uplifting.
From rich dark soil young rye has grown,
its green blades upward thrusting,
the stork though long since off has flown
with sun its wings encrusting.
A Sunday calm is everywhere
midst trees and roof-tops reigning,
a zestful growing fills the air,
past summer’s joy retaining.
At grass cows tug and munch away
with juice their mouths are swimming,
while farmers harvest home the hay
that golden sunshine’s skimming.
Each stubbled field we gaze on too
is golden, brown and yellow,
the rowan red, the sloe dull blue,
the elder’s purple mellow.
And dahlias of motley hue
midst asters now brim over,
their final flourish says adieu,
bids welcome to October.
Red apples will have loosened soon
from branches tired and weighted,
And tree-tops their thick crown have strewn,
each leaf to earth gyrated.
When evening sun drops down behind
black branches, fades and dwindles,
year’s last ripe fruit it calls to mind,
fond memories it kindles.
Like some spring seed to swirl and fly
and be some summer flower
is just to wither and to die
if fruit you can’t empower.
If though from life itself you gain
mature mild strength unfleeting,
when petals fade you will retain
a rose-hip heart full-beating.
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