We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage. We will welcome summer's ghost.
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow...
We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dre...
[T]hat old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air ... Another fall, another turned page: there was...
September 11 was terrible but, if one goes back over the history of the IRA, what happened to the Americans wasn't that terrible.
After the chaos and carnage of September 11th, it is not enough to serve our enemies with legal papers.
Making your Christmas cake in September is perfect, as too fresh a cake crumbles when cut.
But when fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles i...
In his or her own way, everyone I saw before me looked happy. Whether they were really happy or just looked it, I couldn't tell. But they did look happy on this pleasant early afternoon in late Septem...
We awoke one morning in September, and the world lurched on its axis.
September was a thirty-days long goodbye to summer, to the season that left everybody both happy and weary of the warm, humid weather and the exhausting but thrilling adventures. It didn't feel like f...