You are a warm day in the middle of September
You are the sun shining through the pines and you are the ripples in the creek
You are the birds chirping at dawn and the clay beneath my toes and the warmth that always surrounds me
You are the earth and the sky and the wind and you will always be more than enough for me
—  m. a.
It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.
Too soon indeed! yet here is the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers,
Whom long since June’s messenger
The mistle-thrush has lightened from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,
- ah! methinks it is a place
Which should be trodden by Peresephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
—  Oscar Wilde - The Garden of Eros