Lowell, Amy -- Late September

Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a'mass.

Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind
Tearing off the husky rind,
Blowing feathered seeds to fall
By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.

Beech trees in a golden haze;
Hardy sumachs all ablaze,
Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches!

From the sunny door-jamb high,
Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins
Through the stubble shrilly dins.

Every blade's a minaret
Where a small muezzin's set,
Loudly calling us to pray
At the miracle of day.

Then the purple-lidded night
Westering comes, her footsteps light
Guided by the radiant boon
Of a sickle-shaped new moon. 

Baudelaire

From 'Un Fantôme', translated here:

At times there shines, and lengthens, and broadens
A specter made of grace and of splendor;
By its dreamy, oriental manner,

When it attains its full stature,
I recognize my lovely visitor;
It's She! dark and yet luminous.

Excerpt from Shelley's Adonais

XI 

       One from a lucid urn of starry dew 

       Wash'd his light limbs as if embalming them; 

       Another clipp'd her profuse locks, and threw 

       The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 

       Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; 

       Another in her wilful grief would break 

       Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 

       A greater loss with one which was more weak; 

And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. 

October by Hilaire Belloc

Look, how those steep woods on the mountain's face
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year's grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace,
And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled,
Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold,
And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.

Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry,
Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether;
Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free,
And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather;
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we,
Singing old songs and drinking wine together. 

A Song In October by Theodor Storm [trans. from his Oktoberlied]

One translation by Walter A. Aue [from here]:

The rising fog, the falling leaves:
to wine we are beholden!
The grayish day no longer grieves:
it's golden, yes, it's golden!

And if all madness be unfurled
(by church or temple polished),
this world, this most amazing world,
can never be demolished.

And even if the heart should smart
let glasses sound the meeting!
For all we know, a righteous heart
will never stop its beating.

The rising fog, the falling leaves:
to wine we are beholden!
The grayish day no longer grieves:
it's golden, yes, it's golden!

Though it is fall, wait just a while,
just wait and keep consuming!
The spring arrives, the sky is blue,
the violets are blooming.

The days of blue shall be at hand, 
and ere they all shall leave us, 
we'll let the wine, my noble friend, 
reprieve us, yes, reprieve us! 

Another translation:

Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden; yes, to golden!

What if the storm outside destroy
Alike Christian and heathen? 
Nature must sweep the old away 
To bring on a new season. 

What if some aching dread we feel?
Lift glasses, all, and ring them!
True hearts, we know, will never quail
Whatever fortune brings them!

Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden, yes, to golden!

Autumn has come, but never fear,
Wait but a little while yet,
Spring will be here, the skies will clear, 
And fields stand deep in violets.

The heavenly blue of fresh new days
Oh, friend, you must employ them
Before they pass away. Be brave!
Enjoy them; oh, enjoy them! 

Summer ending

End of Summer by Mark Turbyfill

 For that a great weariness has come upon me
Here in the remaining day of summer--
And the overgrown yard a stagnant mood,
Under the boughs the apples rotting,
And the fading grasses forgotten of cutting--
Suffer me to wag the tongue a little.

Even as leans on the fainting evening the foliage withering,
I am touched with a song of brown and of shadows,
And of colors lingering.
And I passed before a house of vines
To hear a myriad of birds therein
Crying, crying.

Léonie Adams

'Country Summer':

Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,  

And top with silver petals traced  

Like a strict box its gems encased,  

Has spilt from out that cunning lid,  

All in an innocent green round,  

Those melting rubies which it hid;  

With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,  

So birds get half, and minds lapse merry  

To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,  

And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted. 

The wren that thieved it in the eaves  

A trailer of the rose could catch  

To her poor droopy sloven thatch, 

And side by side with the wren’s brood— 

O lovely time of beggar’s luck— 

Opens the quaint and hairy bud;  

And full and golden is the yield  

Of cows that never have to house,  

But all night nibble under boughs,  

Or cool their sides in the moist field. 

Into the rooms flow meadow airs, 

The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.  

Inside and out, and sky and ground  

Are much the same; the wishing star,  

Hesperus, kind and early born,  

Is risen only finger-far; 

All stars stand close in summer air, 

And tremble, and look mild as amber;  

When wicks are lighted in the chamber,  

They are like stars which settled there. 

Now straightening from the flowery hay,  

Down the still light the mowers look,  

Or turn, because their dreaming shook,  

And they waked half to other days,  

When left alone in the yellow stubble  

The rusty-coated mare would graze.  

Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,  

Another thought can come to mind,  

But like the shivering of the wind,  

Morning and evening in the corn.