In September's gentle, golden hue,
The harvest season dawns, a dream come true,
Fields of plenty, ripe with morning dew,
Nature's bounty gathered, the farmer's due.

With scythe in hand, and sweat upon the brow,
The farmer toils beneath the sun's warm vow,
Rows of corn and wheat, in neat, straight plow,
In September's grace, they're reaped somehow.

Apples hang heavy on orchard trees,
Their sweetness carried by...