Top 8 Beautiful Essays about September

September is the sweetest time of autumn. The sky is a deep blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds. The soft, cool winds gently sway the trees. Golden leaves drift from the branches, spinning in the air before settling gently on the ground. The sun's golden glow, with just enough crispness to give a rosy hue to a girl's cheeks, fills the air. The sweet fragrance of milk flowers fills every street. Small clusters of young green rice flower buds hang densely on the branches, scattering delicate blossoms on the passing people's hair. Early mornings, when the balcony door is opened to the street, the cool winds bring the scent of ripe banyan fruits into the room. A stroll on the sidewalk, with the rustling of falling leaves and the rich aroma of coffee from a small café nearby, slows one's pace.

In the busy hustle and bustle of the city, bicycles loaded with yellow chrysanthemums make their slow, relaxed way into the streets, bringing the fall colors from the rural fields. Suddenly, memories of September in my hometown flood in. At this time, my mother often ventured into the fading lotus ponds, digging up roots to sell to traders in the city. Among the vast pond, her small figure would disappear into the thick reeds. Occasionally, she would stop, wiping the sweat-soaked hair from her face. Sometimes, she would carefully remove the yellowed, aged leaves near the rice fields in preparation for harvest, or tirelessly tie up the water spinach rafts that had been torn apart by storms. Her hardworking hands never rested. September, with its soft, silky winds, is also the time when the countryside smells of its autumn specialties. The tender, sweet niêng roots are perfect for an evening meal in the cool air. The first batch of sticky rice is fragrant and soft, with the sweetness of bananas and persimmons. In the brackish water areas, people eagerly gather to catch the river worms that swim to the surface, their rich flavor creating delicious dishes. The quail birds, after feeding on fragrant rice in the harvest fields, become plump and tender, making perfect sticky rice. The smell of dry hay in the sun lingers on the farmyard. Every September, these scents bring a wave of sweetness, filling the heart with longing and nostalgia.

Lam Hồng

A new month has arrived. I flip through my journal, scribbling down thoughts from a night full of reflections. Saying goodbye to August with its mix of emotions—both sad and joyful—there's not much regret. A bittersweet smile crosses my face as I recall the verses you wrote in my yearbook so long ago, on the final school day before graduation. September is here, bringing with it the start of a new school year. I fondly remember the white school uniform, rushing to find the one I used to wear. The ink stains have faded, but the messages remain, and the faces, the laughter, all come back as though playing in slow motion. September, perhaps, is when we hide ourselves in the memories of our school years, reminiscing, thinking back to first loves, the times we were late to school, and especially feeling the weightlessness of the first day back, meeting friends after a long summer.

September, with autumn fully settling in, brings the blooming chrysanthemums, their golden yellow covering the streets and making the white school uniforms appear even more beautiful. I feel a pang of regret. When I was in school, I never liked the loose, bulky uniforms, nor did I appreciate the cumbersome ao dai. But now, after leaving school, I long to wear the very uniforms I once despised. I now admire the grace of the young girl, poised in her pristine white ao dai, representing the soul of the Vietnamese people. Only now do I realize why the color white in the ao dai is so prevalent in poetry. It embodies memories—poetry, music, and love: “It’s the uniform that floats through dreams. It’s the poem that stays in the notebook. It’s the game that brings and takes back…” Though I long to return to those days, time cannot turn back. All I can do is borrow September to look back at those school memories, filled with regret and longing.

Every student has their moments of foolishness, their times of not knowing enough, and the mistakes they make. Without these mistakes, school years would feel “wasted.” Because, without them, we wouldn’t look back in laughter, feeling a bittersweet regret, followed by relief. The beauty of student life lies in those first, silly falls. A memory too “clean” is a memory best forgotten. That’s why, later in life, we become captivated by the things we once rejected—the white uniforms, the skirts we tightened, the colors we sought, not realizing that white is the most beautiful color, especially when worn by pure, carefree souls. Life is like a pot of dye; you can color it any way you want, except for the original pure white.

September calls forth so many memories: the first rain of the season soaking our uniforms, skipping school with friends to eat ice cream, the schoolyard covered in fallen yellow leaves, gathering with friends to roast sweet potatoes, watching a ball fly high into the sky, and the innocent, naive feelings of youth.

September, with its unpredictable weather and increasing autumn winds, calls for days spent wandering the crowded, narrow streets of Hanoi, searching for myself in autumn songs: “The artist wanders endlessly on the streets, only to forget the way home…” Though not an artist, with an artist's soul, I wish to wander, lost in Hanoi’s autumn streets, isn’t that alright?

In the end, September has arrived. Not in obsession, but full of quiet joy. So, why not greet September, the month of timeless memories that soothe the heart, and begin new plans for the future?

Nguyễn Văn Hiệp

In September, the autumn gardens are filled with golden leaves swaying in the breeze, while ripe pomelos wait for the full moon festival to arrive. The sound of sparrows chirps as they hop around picking up grains of rice scattered on the courtyard.

As night falls, a thin crescent moon floats delicately across the starry sky, gradually becoming full as autumn deepens. Never has the moon seemed so perfect, its golden light casting a serene atmosphere over the earth, reminding me of the gentle nostalgia of the past.

I remember the September days in my hometown. The sky was so high and blue, with golden sunlight spilling onto the fresh grass, making everything look like a romantic painting. The harsh summer sun had faded, replaced by gentle winds that whispered through the air. I loved immersing myself in the quiet evenings of September, wearing a light jacket to welcome the first breezes of autumn. It felt so peaceful.

Morning walks through my father's garden, filled with fruit trees, always brought me joy. Among them were my favorite guava trees, with clusters of ripe fruit swaying gently in the wind, their sweet fragrance filling the air. I would pick the guavas, wash them, and arrange them on a plate to enjoy with my parents after a cozy dinner.

September is also a time when I feel a sense of longing. It’s the nostalgia for my childhood, bidding farewell to the carefree summer days spent playing with my friends, and stepping into a new school year. I still vividly remember my first day of school. It was the day I had to say goodbye to my beloved dolls and teddy bears and start first grade. My mother led me down the familiar village path to school, and all the way there, I clutched her hand tightly, unwilling to let go.

Today, another September day, I find myself alone in my small rented room, reminiscing about the autumns long past. I miss my childhood and the warmth of those seasons. Time, however, is unforgiving—it silently moves forward, taking away all the things we once cherished and hoped for. Now, at 20, I’m not quite an adult yet, but no longer a child. At this age, you begin to realize how much you miss the past, especially your younger years.

This autumn, I no longer feel the same sense of wonder as I did when my mother held my hand and led me to school. This autumn, I continue to live away from home, pursuing my own future. People often say not to cry over the past or expect too much from the future. What matters is living fully in the present. And while I sometimes think back on past memories, I don’t let them make me sad. I recall them to remind myself not to lose myself in the present.

This autumn, perhaps it will be like every autumn before it: warm golden sunlight casting its soft rays over the fields waiting for the rice to ripen. Brown sparrows casually collect golden hay for their nests, and crickets sing out with joy as the day fades. In the fields, white herons hesitate as evening falls.

I promise myself that no matter where life takes me, no matter how busy I become, I will return to my hometown during autumn one day.

Essay by Trần Văn Hiếu

In September, the winds of change herald the arrival of autumn. Heavy rains drench the streets outside, while a yellow leaf gently falls back to its roots. The quiet, peaceful afternoons seem to drift by slowly, calm and still.

By the river, the heron stands watch, waiting for the ebbing tide, calling out in the distance. It’s almost like a signal, alerting the farmers to the changing flow of the river. Late at night, when I wake up, the sound of the heron's call reminds me of the tides, high or low.

The autumn sky seems to deepen, as the sun shines through the haze, soft and dreamy. The vines grow, their green leaves stretching across the trellis, while yellow flowers bloom, attracting bees and butterflies to dance around them.

As September arrives, the sky feels lower, weighed down by thick clouds that gradually turn into rain, covering the village in a gentle white blanket.

Every year, at this time, there’s a rush to build stronger dikes. This is the life of those living near the river. When the water rises, it brings a sense of worry. The crops, fruits, and vegetables get submerged in water, and fish and shrimp are swept away to the river. Our homes are flooded, and everything we’ve worked for gets ruined. So, each year, when the water rises, my father would hurriedly reinforce the dikes. A farmer’s income is modest, and if the dike breaks, the damage would be devastating.

In September, the sugarcane fields are lush and green, though it’s still uncertain how much they will yield. But that green field represents a year’s worth of hope for farmers, who work tirelessly under the sun, drenched in sweat.

I remember when I was younger, during this time, the sound of a hoe striking the ground would echo through the neighborhood as my father and others prepared the fields for the sugarcane harvest. Those sounds mixed with the evening rain, creating a melancholic feeling—a sadness rooted in the hardship of farming life, with weathered hands and calloused skin.

Now, my father is gone, and I have taken up his work, continuing the legacy of farming. The sugarcane still grows green, just like the hope it brings. The rhythmic sound of the hoe strikes the earth, while the autumn winds blow through the open fields, carrying with them memories of the past.

This afternoon, there’s a light rain falling on the leafy ground, and the heron calls again. The river flows strongly with the floodwater. If my father were still here, he would be telling me to build up the dikes.

September is here, and I know exactly what to do as the water pushes the floating hyacinths downstream.

ĐƯỜNG LANG

The streets are quiet, and the familiar corners of cafes are sparse... The city seems strangely unfamiliar as it drifts through the clear autumn days.

Yesterday, long streams of cars, like giant serpents, left Hanoi heading in every direction, yet today, the city feels completely different from its usual noisy self. Autumn entered the city with a silent, calm presence; white clouds filled the sky, letting golden sunlight settle gently on the still-green leaves of the trees.

I vividly remember a line from the movie *Hoa cỏ may*, where the young girl Thủy says that autumn in Hanoi is found in the sky above. It’s the scent of pomelo flowers, fading somewhat, but the white blossoms of milk flowers have already begun to appear. The sweet, intoxicating fragrance drifts through the air, enveloping the streets of Hanoi in its embrace.

Hanoi in autumn is also painted with a range of colors. Hoàng Diệu and Phan Đình Phùng streets seem more beautiful as sunlight weaves through the thick, lush green leaves. The ancient trees begin shedding their golden leaves, marking a return to their roots. The banyan trees recognize the approaching chill, as red leaves begin to form on their branches.

For those who have lived in Hanoi long enough, there’s a version of Hanoi that is clear and serene. Autumn brings a refreshing vibrance but also an intangible calmness. Walking through the streets on early September afternoons, the invisible beauty of the day fills the air, leaving one in awe.

One morning, I woke up to a delightful sensation, as the cool breeze had slipped through the cracks of the door, sending gentle shivers across my skin. The alleyways were quieter, and the city seemed still, basking in a peaceful and unfamiliar tranquility.

Footsteps on the streets were slower, and the few people passing by smiled more often, holding hands more tightly. Autumn transforms everything ordinary into something beautiful and comforting. Squinting against the sun, I could see the roads painted with golden light.

Collected by

As September unfolds, the streets seem to become more tranquil, bathed in a dreamy quiet. The earth gently touches the autumn season, and the evening rain comes and goes, lightly wetting the shoulders and softly sprinkling a sense of melancholy. Autumn’s yellow leaves linger with memories, evoking distant, quiet loves. September arrives at the small alleyway, with yellow chrysanthemums peeking out from the balcony. How many September mornings have I walked through green, mossy streets? Yet, my heart still holds a gentle flutter of nostalgia. The evening of September is painted with hues of memories—chilly winds, drifting autumn breezes—that make me lost in my own thoughts… September stirs something in me that never fades.

There’s no rush, no irritation—just calmly drifting like a boat, cruising through the river of time, carrying all the joyful and sorrowful moments. As we step into the early days of September, our hearts flutter with the victorious echo of historical autumns past. I close my eyes, and the pure sunlight floods my soul. It’s as if the golden rays of Ba Đình shine through, reflecting in every bright eye full of hope. In the bustling square, flags fluttering, millions of hearts have become one, united by a deep, passionate love for the country, spreading everywhere. The voice of the great leader still warms us, resonating as if echoing in the trees, the soil, a powerful reminder of love and duty.

A fleeting moment of longing, I remember, I feel a deep affection for the figure of my grandfather, strong and weathered, in his soldier's uniform, during those early days of Independence Day. His uniform, a historical witness of a heroic time, his trembling hands carefully holding and wrapping it, reliving those days of struggle. His sacred love and aspirations live on in my memories, lighting a fierce fire of gratitude and admiration in me. He has now passed on, but the stories of his time in the Hoàng Cầm kitchen, marching through mountains and forests, and nights of reconnaissance, still linger in my thoughts, filling me with deep love and pride.

September calls with its promise of bustling steps toward school. Like a little bird flapping its wings for the first time, the first day of school is accompanied by the cool autumn breeze, with yellow chrysanthemums swaying along familiar paths. I still feel the nervous excitement as I step away from my mother’s comforting hands. My eyes shy away from the gentle looks of my mother and teacher, but they sparkle with a new sense of curiosity and eager excitement. Each day, I’ve learned to love the pages of my books, resting my head on poetic verses, and sweet fairy tales. The world of school days is wrapped under the roof of the classroom, with leaves of the plane tree gently falling. The gates of school silently welcome all our joys and small sorrows, leaving an indelible memory each time we part.

September paints memories in the golden light of the mystical moon. The moon in the city hides behind towering buildings, yet still faithfully watches over, unaffected by the busy world rushing towards bright lights. The moonlight gently fills my soul, carrying a deep longing for home. I wonder, in my homeland, is my mother lying on the hammock, her heart aching as she looks at the moon, missing her child? September, in this small corner of the street, brings back the familiar scent of my mother’s hair, whispering softly into my dreams.

Looking at the calm moonlight, I long for the sounds of drums during the Mid-Autumn Festival. The moonlight shines through the leaves, lighting up the village paths, as I eagerly walk along with a simple lantern. The memories glitter like stars, filled with the innocent smiles and peaceful moments of the past. And even though I’ve traveled many familiar and unfamiliar roads, I still yearn for the sweet memories of childhood and the Mid-Autumn Festival in my hometown. September in my heart will always be tied to the fairy-tale cradle of my youth...

TRẦN VĂN THIÊN

Autumn, the season when leaves fall, fills the heart with tender memories, weaving a subtle longing. September is leaving, and Hanoi no longer carries the soft warmth, have you missed your appointment with love?

The street feels light this afternoon, drifting slowly as if hurriedly searching for a lost memory. The wind still dances around the old trees shedding their leaves. Suddenly, the breeze sings a sweet autumn tune, stirring countless memories. The sunlight slants, spilling into the eyes of someone hesitantly walking toward the deep, quiet alley. A soft rain showers down on the shoulder, a fleeting autumn rain that leaves behind fragments of time—signaling that something is passing, something old, something distant...

September is almost over, the love unspoken, the moments not held onto. Has anyone missed those moments, only to realize one day that there's nothing left to find? Autumn sways gently, like a young girl shyly hiding a smile behind her pure white school uniform, welcoming the new season.

The hurried rain in late September seems to try to keep time still, holding on to autumn for just a little longer, but the approaching October cannot slow down the passing of the old days. Suddenly, memories of September mornings come rushing back, spinning around, catching the pure rain drops, gently tapping the heart, stirring quiet emotions. September was truly beautiful...

Has anyone tucked themselves under the shade of the old phoenix tree, where tiny golden leaves fall gently, longing to embrace the entire September sky, to hold onto the first tender love amidst the autumn breeze? A smile shyly tilts, and the sunlight floods into the eyes, filled with autumn’s embrace. In the familiar corner, the frail figure of the flower seller slowly walks, as if carrying away all that September holds—carrying love and all its clumsy beginnings.

Someone once said September is the season of love, of memories, of hands gently holding, listening to the steady rhythm of each breath, feeling love as sweet and cool as the autumn water. The shy girl turns away, a smile of happiness on her lips, as the evening sun casts golden light over her flowing hair, leaving the boy standing in awe, as the first love quietly blooms in her heart.

At the end of the month, a sudden rush of rain, and a young man hurrying to catch up with a vibrant bouquet of flowers, quickly selecting the last pink lotus flowers of the season… And then, the sun breaks through. September is almost gone, but autumn lingers, love remains in those eyes, full of affection.

The little girl in the busy city, pushing her way through the crowd, trying to catch the last bus. As the bus starts to move, she sees her homeland reflected in those longing eyes.

September and autumn are intertwined, so quietly, so gently. Love had already knocked at the door, unnoticed, but now the heart dances to a new rhythm—a rhythm that spins in the rain, exchanging glances, and in that moment, love arrives. Those fleeting moments, paused just enough, for both to feel and hold tight. So that every time we remember, we’re left with a warm feeling, an old longing, as we say goodbye to September...

Autumn, the season of falling leaves, fills the heart with tender memories, weaving a quiet longing, and fills the eyes with a peaceful evening sky.

September is leaving, leaving, and Hanoi no longer carries the soft warmth, have you missed your chance at love?

(Collected)

I always feel a deep nostalgia for the September days of my hometown. Those were the beautiful, pure, and peaceful days of my childhood. September, the autumn season, is ripening. The sun is gentle now, no longer harsh like the late summer heat. It seems the autumn sunshine makes my mother's garden even richer with fruits and flowers.

I can never forget the guava tree by the pond, with its pinkish-red flesh, soft and sweet with a delicious fragrance. I also recall the sapodilla trees near the house wall, planted by my father long ago, their lush branches wide-spreading. Each morning, I would rush to the tree to check if the fruit had ripened. And there was the thin persimmon tree, its golden fruits weighed down by their abundance. Lastly, the tall persimmon tree, its sweet scent drifting in the air, captivating every child.

September was the time when I eagerly awaited the golden rains, so I could go with my friends to hunt for frogs. Frog hunting was a fun and irresistible pastime for the children in my village. After the rain stopped, we would gather at the village crossroads, each ready with their tools—a bamboo basket, a flashlight hanging from their heads, and a long net. After two or three hours, we'd return with a full basket. The frogs were sorted at home. The frogs were cooked for soup, stewed with bamboo shoots, or fried with wild betel leaves, while the toads were fed to the pigs, chickens, ducks, and geese. On chilly autumn nights, a warm bowl of frog soup shared with the family felt like pure happiness. I remember some days, when there were too many frogs, my mother would take them to the market to sell, and the money would be put into my little red piggy bank. I would wait until the second semester to use the money to buy books and school supplies. Such simple joys filled September with love and warmth.

There were also those sad September days, with the relentless rains falling from one day to the next. The sky would turn white with rain, and the water would rise, flooding right up to the porch. The rain made life harder for my parents. The kitchen would be filled with smoke as my mother cooked, her eyes watering from the fire. My father would be busy running back and forth, worrying about the pond overflowing and the fish escaping. The meals on rainy days were sparse, with only a few pieces of dried salted fish and a bowl of sesame peanuts my mother had prepared in advance. What I remember most is how my mother would always say, 'Eat as best as you can, we'll have better meals once the rain stops.'

September always reminds me of the time when my grandmother was still beside me. She was a remarkable woman, with an endless love for chrysanthemums. Living with her, I learned the value of patience, a love for plants and nature, and how to treat them as close friends.

September also brings back the lively sound of footsteps, as I walked to school with my friends. The path passed through fields fragrant with the scent of rice and wild grass, and the delicate flowers of the xiến chi plant bloomed white and pure. We all walked with light hearts, chattering about our dreams. The classroom was small, with only a few dozen students and one teacher, but it felt warm and intimate. I often shed tears thinking back on those school years—remembering my friends, their faces, and their personalities. Those peaceful years were the foundation of my happiest memories.

September carries a quiet nostalgia, reminding me of the simple, humble life, and yet how full of peace it was. No matter where I go, I will always remember the September of my hometown. There, the little things, the simple joys that seemed easily forgotten, are what make me feel the most nostalgic and at peace. Even in the bustle of the city, my heart feels light and calm when I think of that September, my beloved hometown.

Essay by NGUYỄN VĂN CHIẾN