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