This is a repeat of a post that appeared in this blog last September–the difference is, last September I had about ten followers and now I have 363–so I have edited it and am posting it again.
It is now or never. Actually, it is now, or wait another year. It is the last few days of September and if I am to use the poem, aptly called “September Poem” by Helen Hunt Jackson, I had better get to it. Hard to believe it is the end of September, with October banging on the door. This is my favourite time of year. Many consider fall the harbinger to winter, but it is a time those of us not prone to look beyond our noses, enjoy.
Many of the things mentioned in Ms. Jackson’s poetic tribute to September are felt in October. So for your reading pleasure, and without much further ado, I present
The golden rod is yellow; the corn is turning brown,
The trees in apple orchards–with fruit are bending down;
The gentian’s bluest fringes are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed–its hidden silk has spun;
The sedges flaunt their harvest in every meadow nook,
And asters by the brookside make asters in the brook;
From dewy lanes at morning the grapes’ sweet odour rise;
At noon the roads all flutter with yellow butterflies—
By all these lovely tokens, September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather, and autumn’s best of cheer.
Admit it, does this poem, (if you are of a certain age) not take you back to the days of grammar school when we were forced to learn a certain number of lines of poetry in order to pass our language course? I remember sitting in at recess and noon hours when I was in grade four learning line upon line of poetry, to be recited to the teacher before being allowed to go outside.
I hated memorizing poetry—but things that rhymed were much easier to remember than prose poems. If I had been acquainted with Ms. Jackson, this would have been a poem I would have chosen to memorize—although for the life of me, I do not know what a gentian is, or what sedges are, but that can be remedied by a quick Google.
Okay I am back from Googling (and I must say a good time was had by all). Here is my report: Gentians are a pretty flower-like plant, and sedges are kind of a grass. I guess from the context of the poem, you get that idea, but I just wanted to make sure.
A little background:
Born in 1831 in Massachusetts, Helen Hunt Jackson lived until 1885 and was described as “the most brilliant, impetuous and thoroughly individual woman of her time”. If even one of those little descriptions were allotted to me, I would be happy. She also had some pretty noteworthy friends: Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Oliver Wendell Holmes. Now wouldn’t that be a dinner party you would not mind attending?