"August"

August

It is the month of falling stars,

        Of golden days and silver nights,

Of sunsets wrought of rose and pearl,

        And fired with opal lights.

The splendor deepens day by day,

        Larger each night the languid moon

Swims silently thro’ ether deeps

        Less blue than those of June.

In little creamy, tossing drifts,

        Dog-fennel blossoms everywhere;

The perfume of the wild, rich musk

        Is spilt along the air.

Still, still the tall wild asters stand

        In lavender groups beside the way,

Still, still the golden sunlight gilds

        The white-veined beryl of the bay; 

And one wild yellow violet

        I found but yesterday.

Cross any little stream, and see

        The brooklime’s tiny azure eyes! 

Surely they stole that perfect hue

        Right out of last June’s fairest skies,

And kept it hidden until now—

        Just for a sweet surprise.

Each month has her own ravishments,

        And August has the mellow moon,

And stars that fall thro’ ether deeps

        Less blue than those of June.

The dim, sweet, golden distances

        With rose and purple faintly sown,

The wind’s low, hesitating note—

        These things are August’s own.

A draft of "August" on onionskin paper, courtesy of the Ella Higginson Papers, Center for Pacific Northwest Studies, Heritage Resources, Western Washington University, Bellingham WA.

"August" appears in Ella Higginson's When the Birds Go North Again (1898).