Franklin Benjamin Sanborn (1831–1917)

SHINE kindly forth, September sun,

From heavens calm and clear,

That no untimely cloud may run

Before thy golden sphere,

To vex our simple rites to-day

With one prophetic tear.

With steady voices let us raise

The fitting psalm and prayer;—

Remembered grief of other days

Breathes softening in the air:

Who knows not Death—who mourns no loss—

He has with us no share.

To holy sorrow—solemn joy,

We consecrate the place

Where soon shall sleep the maid and boy,

The father and his race,

The mother with her tender babe,

The venerable face.

These waving woods—these valleys low

Between these tufted knolls,

Year after year shall dearer grow

To many loving souls;

And flowers be sweeter here than blow

Elsewhere between the poles.

For deathless Love and blessèd Grief

Shall guard these wooded aisles,

When either Autumn casts the leaf,

Or blushing Summer smiles,

Or Winter whitens o’er the land,

Or Spring the buds uncoils.