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Title: "September Mornin's"
Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln [
More Titles by Lincoln]
Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin,
With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin,
When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know
That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go";
When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out,
And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about,
And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels,
Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.
There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe
When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe;
There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine,
And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine;
And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves,
Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves;
And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place,
And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.
Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass,
Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass,
Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat,
Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that;
And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane,
Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,--
For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew
When _he_ went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.
Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll
Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul,
And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme
So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time;
And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near
That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here;
That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn,
But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.
[The end]
Joseph Crosby Lincoln's poem: "September Mornin's"
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