Upon an upland orchard’s sunny side,
I pass the quiet blue September day:
There winds through tented fields they sometimes hide,
Past woods and meadows green, the dusty way,
Down to the ship-speckled level of the bay,
And amber sands in crescent spreading wide.
Last night the winds were in the trees, and here
In golden moss a few red apples lie,
And from the copse a thrush flutes strong and clear,
And faintly humming flits the emerald fly:
All things autumnalised are rich and calm;
Steam-plumed argosies surge up the main,
And o’er the singing woodlands breathing balm,
One superb white cloud passes, dropping rain.
Thomas Caulfield Irwin 1823-1892