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September.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through Their skins, and pearled with dew These damsons violet-blue.

[While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.]

September.

My song is half a sigh Because my green leaves die; Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; And well may Autumn sigh, And well may I Who watch the sere leaves flying.

My leaves that fade and fall, I note you one and all; I call you, and the Autumn wind is calling, Lamenting for your fall, And for the pall You spread on earth in falling.

And here's a song of flowers to suit such hours: A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, Amid my withering bowers.

In the sunny garden bed Lilies look so pale, Lilies droop the head In the shady grassy vale; If all alike they pine In shade and in shine, If everywhere they grieve, Where will lilies live?

[October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long ripe hop-bine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his buttonhole.]

October.

Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, Even if the year has done with corn and clover, With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact it's true, Some leaves remain and some flowers too. For me and you. Now see my crops:

[Offering his produce to September.

I've brought you nuts and hops; And when the leaf drops, why, the walnut drops.