Poem by Thomas MacDonagh

In September

The winds are in the wood again to-day,
    Not moaning as they moan among bare boughs
In winter dark, nor baying as they bay
    When hunting in full moon, the spring to rouse;

Nor as in summer, soft: the insistent rain
    Hisses the woe of my void life to me;
And the winds jibe me for my anguish vain,
    Sibilant, like waters of the washing sea.

1. The Song of Joy
2. Averil
3. In Dread
4. The Poet Saint
5. The Seasons and the Leaves

Amy Levy In September ("The sky is silver-grey; the long")

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