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Lord, it is time. The summer was so great. |
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Impose upon the sundials now your shadows |
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and round the meadows let the winds rotate. |
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Command the last fruits to incarnadine; |
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vouchsafe, to urge them on into completeness, |
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yet two more south-like days; and that last sweetness, |
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inveigle it into the heavy vine. |
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He'll not build now, who has no house awaiting. |
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Who's now alone, for long will so remain: |
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sit late, read, write long letters, and again |
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return to restlessly perambulating |
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the avenues of parks when leaves downrain. |
