Poem for September

September is a stallion
With a flowing, tawny mane
Who has never known a bridle,
Nor a rider, nor a rein:
A steed of bronze and amber,
Whose bright hooves strike the ground
With a sharp staccato rhythm
And an icy, ringing sound.
September is a mustang,
From wild, untrammeled skies
Who gallops down the earthways
With wind-enchanged eyes.

I have had this poem written down forever... if anyone knows who it is by, please let me know.