september

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 September, and because of that I felt a kind of loneliness new to me, as if I were the only one here who was not truly part of the scene.

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 liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

Responsibility sucked rocks. Until a few months ago, I hadn__ been responsible for anything more than color-coordinating my wardrobe. But foil one vampire vixen bent on world domination and suddenly people expect all kinds of things. Some days it just didn__ pay to wake up dead. (teaser from ReVamped, coming September 1st)

No matter how many losing seasons you might have had in the past with your marriage, the good thing is that all teams get a fresh start once September begins

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 fresh air either, it made me suffocate. It was like the days would be dragging some kind of sickness, one that we knew wouldn't last, but made us uncomfortable anyway. The atmosphere felt dusty and stifling.

Yeah _ Sure I rememberMatter of fact it was just last SeptemberShe still calls it the fall to rememberLittle Heather when it all came togetherYou remember the first time you met her?She cried when it rained and blamed the weatherBut inside she strained with suicide lettersThe kind of cold you couldn__ warm with a sweater Hardly lasted past December She said she was headed down to defeat That__ the last you__ seen and never had dreamed That the same little Heather _ It__ who you saw last weekIn an instant you couldn__ have missed her gleamAs she listened she looked like a distant queen With a difference, there for all to seeShe found a different _ A different kind of free

Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

After the chaos and carnage of September 11th, it is not enough to serve our enemies with legal papers.

We sold OkCupid to Match in January of 2011. In September of 2012, I became CEO of all of Match, which is the operating segment of IAC that contains all of the dating properties.

The mobilisation which Bush has been able to perform since 11 September 2001 has to be fought - at least by Americans - in the name of a wise, honourable and democratic patriotism.

September 11 was terrible but, if one goes back over the history of the IRA, what happened to the Americans wasn't that terrible.

The prompt assimilation of that intelligence will be essential if we are to avoid another September 11th.

We awoke one morning in September, and the world lurched on its axis.

Making your Christmas cake in September is perfect, as too fresh a cake crumbles when cut.

Yes, what has happened is we have moved from responding to these terrorist attacks as acts of civil disobedience to getting to the point after September 11 that we said, no, this is not just civil disobedience, this is an act of war.

Any attempts at humor immediately after September 11th were deemed tasteless.

The last dying days of summer, fall coming on fast. A cold night, the first of the season, a change from the usual bland Maryland climate. Cold, thought the boy; his mind felt numb. The trees he could see through his bedroom window were tall charcoal sticks, shivering, afraid of the wind or only trying to stand against it. Every tree was alone out there. The animals were alone, each in its hole, in its thin fur, and anything that got hit on the road tonight would die alone. Before morning, he thought, its blood would freeze in the cracks of the asphalt.

I have missed you so much I could kiss you,_ he whispered.September__ face fell. __h, but Saturday! I__e had my First Kiss and I didn__ mean to, I didn__ want to, but your shadow is very rude and impulsive, and he took it before I could say two words! And I__e had my second and third and maybe fifth, too. Come to think of it, this has all involved rather a lot of kissing.__aturday furrowed his brow. __hy should I care about your First Kiss?_ he said. __ou can kiss anyone you like. But if you sometimes wanted to kiss me, that would be all right, too._ His blush was so deep September could feel the heat of it.She leaned in, and kissed her Marid gently, sweetly. She tried to kiss him the way she__ always thought kisses would be. His lips tasted like the sea.