O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Der September ist da und vereint das Wetter des Sommers mit der Stimmung des Herbstes.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
