By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
We are more determined than ever to live our lives in freedom.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.
For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.
Freedom itself was attacked this morning by a faceless coward, and freedom will be defended.
My favourite poem is the one that starts 'Thirty days hath September' because it actually tells you something.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of trauma, I will fear no concussion.
September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
Thousands of lives were suddenly ended by evil, despicable acts of terror. The pictures of airplanes flying into buildings, fires burning, huge structures collapsing, have filled us with disbelief, terrible sadness and a quiet, unyielding anger.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
Try to remember the kind of September When life was slow and oh so mellow. Try to remember the kind of September When grass was green and grain was yellow. Try to remember the kind of September When you were a tender and callow fellow. Try to remember and if you remember then follow follow.
The attacks of September 11th were intended to break our spirit. Instead we have emerged stronger and more unified. We feel renewed devotion to the principles of political, economic, and religious freedom, the rule of law and respect for human life. We are more determined than ever to live our lives in freedom.
September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.
The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.
Sorrow and scarlet leaf, Sad thoughts and sunny weather. Ah me, this glory and this grief Agree not well together!
Spring scarce had greener fields to show than these Of mid September; through the still warm noon The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune Than ever in the summer; from the trees Dusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies, No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoon In pallid skies more suddenly, and the moon Finds motionless white mists out on the leas.
The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.
or simply: