Set down in this golden September one day By one who has been in the country since May.
WE'RE still in the season Of sunshine and leisure, Yet blithe as we wander
O'er meadow and Down, 0 say is it treason To think of the treasure Heaped up for us yonder In grey London town?
At ease in the heather, Mid hot air a-quiver, I'm watching a rabbit That plays hide-and-seek, But wondering whether I'll make for the River, Or first for the Abbey, In London next week.
We hunt the sweet berry With purple-stained ardour, Each bramble one looks in Is bent 'neath its load, It's free and it's merry In Nature's rich larder— Yet 0 to hunt books in The Charing Cross Road !
As daylight expires in This best of Septembers,
A coolness comes blowing—
A chill Wintry hint ! But—think—it blows fires in, And dream-kindling embers, And candle-light glowing On time-mellowed print !
The glory of Summer My being rejoices ; Yet hail to this flavour Of Summer's decay !— It's bringing the glamour, The lights and the voices, The dear homely savour Of London this way'
E. V. LUCAS.