The Bethlen Home Messenger, 1999-2000 (1-3. szám)

2000-08-01 / 3. szám

&ctítntp ®tgï)ltgï)tô

AUGUST

Broad fields of corn,

Green banners in the sun, Brown stubble fields,

The harvesting all done,

The sound of apples dropping One by one.

SEPTEMBER

Sweet is the voice that calls

From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;

And soft the breezes blow,

And eddying come and go,

In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Across the distant woods A veil of blue,

Red berries gleaming where Wild roses grew,

The birdsongs stilled, or muted, Nesting through.

A shrill cicada whirr In heat of noon,

The cricket's tireless tune Beneath the moon,

The katydid's harsh cry Hints autumn soon.

Arms filled with goldenrod And asters blue,

September comes and August Waves adieu...

Turns with a smile and Passes from our view.

Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn,

The merry partridge drums in hidden places;

And glittering insects gleam \\

Above the reedy stream V V

Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. \\

At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall,

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky,

Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill The winds shall whistle chill,

And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow,

And seek for lands where blow

The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather,

The pollen-dusted bees ^

Search for the honey-lees ***

That linger in the last flowers of September;

While plaintive mourning doves

Coo sadly to their loves

Of the dead summer they so well remember.

The cricket chirps all day,

"O fairest Summer, stay!"

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wildfowl fly afar Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.