September

The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires,
  Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows
  Of clematis, through which September goes,
  Song-hearted, rich in realized desires,
  Are flanked by hotter hues: by tawny fires
  Of acrid marigolds,--that light long rows
  Of lamps,--and salvias, red as day's red close,--
  That torches seem,--by which the Month attires
  Barbaric beauty; like some Asian queen,
  Towering imperial in her two-fold crown
  Of harvest and of vintage; all her form
  Majestic gold and purple: in her mien
  The might of motherhood; her baby brown,
  Abundance, high on one exultant arm.