“Strangers have crossed the sound, but not the sound of the dark oarsmen Or the golden-haired sons of kings, Strangers whose thought is not formed to the cadence of waves, Rhythm of the sickle, oar and milking pail” SoundDarkSonKingsWaveStrangerGoldenRhythmCadenceOar Book:Selected poems Source: Selected poems
“September is a sweep of dusky, purple asters, a sumac branch swinging a fringe of scarlet leaves, and the bittersweet scene of wild grapes when I walk down the lane to the mailbox. September is a golden month of mellow sunlight and still clear days. ... Small creatures in the grass, as if realizing their days are numbered, cram the night air with sound. Everywhere goldenrod is full out.” IfsStillsNightSoundRealizingWalksClearAirMonthsSceneCreaturesGoldenGrassBranchesSunlightSeptemberPurpleFringeGrapesLanesBittersweetScarletMellowMailboxesSmall CreaturesAstersClear DayGoldenrod Author:Jean Hersey