At summer's end the crickets fade
And birds soon leave the nests they made
The rush of sadness pulls me down

But lifts when whirling winds resound
The falling acorn, the bent leafy road
The wet mossy bark, the insect's dull drone

The red ember sunset, the seed-rattling gourd
The crackling wood in the black iron hearth
Time is turning, toiling, churning

September's way will slowly turn
The plow again for harvest's horn
Until the bracken and stubbled field is frosted

The cold gorge and rushes, the pending willow
The gurgle of rain, glistening gleam of red leaves
The calm of the horses, their scent on the gate

Mud on the slates, wet wool on the lamb
Time is turning, toiling, churning
September's way will slowly turn

The plow again for harvest's horn
Until the bracken and stubbled field is frosted
The wet-lustered rosehips, the dark crimson haws

The crop of-the berry in glistening shaws
The cobnuts and filberts, the hazel and husk
Sacks for the nutting, hunted at dusk

Time is turning, toiling, churning
September's way will slowly turn
The plow again for harvest's horn

Until the bracken and stubbled field is frosted
The ripe apples fall
When the spice-chilled winds blow

Earth-linked are pumpkins
And vined as they grow
The grey musky rabbit, the cold stem of the kale

Smokey and frosty is the breath of the earth
Time is turning, toiling, churning
September's way will slowly turn

The plow again for harvest's horn
Until the bracken and stubbled field is frosted
Red burnished pears soaked in claret-red wine

Days of the hydref soaked in tree sap and brine
The kernfests and clyacks
Round the plenty filled horns

The dark cello hum of the trees plaintive sound...