After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time



to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials



and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.







As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.



Direct on them two days of warmer light



to hale them golden toward their term, and harry



the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.







Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;



who lives alone will live indefinitely so,



waking up to read a little, draft long letters,



and, along the city's avenues,



fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.





