Late September has settled over the fields: the meadows are still, the corn is ripening, and the moon hangs low over the hill. Against this calm, muted landscape, the speaker feels time slipping away. Youth, once blooming, is now “overblown” and ready to fall. He hears voices calling from the past or from the unknown, but they are silent and unreachable. Even his music seems to leave him, like birds flying from rain and grey skies. He senses a lovelier, deeper music in the words themselves—something his lute cannot actually express. The mood is bittersweet and reflective: not loud grief, but a quiet, autumnal sadness, mixed with tenderness for what is passing and a longing for a beauty just out of reach.
In September — Summary
Still are the meadowlands, and still Ripens the upland corn, And over the brown gradual hill The moon has dipped a horn.
The voices of the dear unknown With silent hearts now call, My rose of youth is overblown And trembles to the fall.
My song forsakes me like the birds That leave the rain and grey, I hear the music of the words My lute can never say.