September
 Hartley Coleridge

The dark green Summer, with its massive hues,
  Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold.
  A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold
  The high slope of the ferny hill indues.
  The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse
  O'er glimmering rock, smooth lake, and spiked array
  Of hedge-row thorns, a unity of grey.
  All things appear their tangible form to lose
  In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom
  Melts, as the Sun puts off his muddy veil;
  And now the birds their twittering songs resume,
  All Summer silent in the leafy dale.
  In Spring they piped of love on every tree,
  But now they sing the song of memory.