September, what news wilt thou bring of arms
Extended toward the babes of distant lands;
Parades of meatless calves in butchers’ farms
To plow infertile soils at cows’ commands;
Ensembles of slaves receiving iron brands
Masters of modern times and slaves of yore,
Branded once by their fathers’ seasoned hands,
Enkindle—O September, what’s in store:
Respite from fiendish woe or yet more fruitless war?