14 Beautiful Quotes and Messages for Month of September

Hello September! Please be amazing.
Anonymous

But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness. The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head … The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on.
Robert Finch

Happily we bask in this warm September sun, Which illuminates all creatures…
Henry David Thoreau

Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
William Wordsworth

September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.
Alexander Theroux

September morn
Do you remember how we danced that night away
Two lovers playing scenes from some romantic play
September morning still can make me feel this way.
Neil Diamond and Gilbert Becaud

T’is the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone.
Thomas Moore, The Last Rose of Summer

A late summer garden has a tranquility found no other time of the year.
William Longgood

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh so mellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain so yellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a young and a callow fellow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow–follow, oh-oh.
Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt, Try to Remember

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer.
Helen Hunt Jackson

For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go.
George Washington Cable

Have a good time, but remember,
There is dander in the summer moon above.
Will I see you in September
Or loose you to a summer love.
S. Wayne and S. Edwards

September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours, but in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn. The cricket chirps in the noontide, making the most of what remains of his brief life. The bumblebee is busy among the clover blossoms of the aftermath, and their shrill and dreamy hum hold the outdoor world above the voices of the song birds, now silent or departed.
Rowland E. Robinson

September fattens on vines.
Roses flake from the wall.
The smoke of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.
This is plenty. This is more than enough.
Geoffrey Hill

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