What is it about September that brings on melancholy thoughts?
This poem by Amy Lowell, "September, 1918," struck me as being as valid today as it was 90 years ago. Lately, I've been having thoughts about the two wars we are mired in. I, too, am trying to "balance myself/Upon a broken world" and it makes me oh, so, sad, since I don't see the hopeful "Some day there will be no war" ever coming to pass.
September, 1918This week's Poetry Friday Round-Up is being hosted by Kelly at Crossover.
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.