Late September catches autumn at its most alive. Amy Lowell fills the scene with ripe fruit, red branches, seeded grass, and massed gentians, then adds wind, sun-baked walls, golden beech trees, and blazing sumac. The speaker feels the season as a physical presence—warm earth, sharp wind, the rasp of insects in the stubble. There is joy and almost reverence in this abundance: each grass stem becomes a tiny minaret, as if the whole landscape is calling out in praise of daylight. But the closing lines shift the mood. Night arrives gently, “purple-lidded” and quiet under a thin new moon, hinting that all this brilliance is fleeting and must be savored. The overall effect is lush, celebratory, and a little bittersweet, like the last warm days before autumn truly turns cold.
Late September — Summary
Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all a'mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches. How that pine tree shouts and lurches!
From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly. Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.