In September Poem by Thomas MacDonagh
In September
The winds are in the wood again to-day,
Not moaning as they moan among bare boughs
In winter dark, nor baying as they bay
When hunting in full moon, the spring to rouse;
Nor as in summer, soft: the insistent rain
Hisses the woe of my void life to me;
And the winds jibe me for my anguish vain,
Sibilant, like waters of the washing sea.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: hunting,spring,summer,winter
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8/19/2026 4:49:46 PM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
