I remember you in the turn of the leaves,
When the branches shed their silent leaves,
And the moon is bright as a golden plate---
Your birthday, I think, came two months too late.
I remember you when the winter is falling,
Shrouded in snow, while the ravens are calling,
No longer larks from some August refrain,
But black like the dimness you felt in the rain.
I remember you in the blossoms, yet burning,
Soft red things dropping petals at morning,
Scarlet, and full, with five roots in the sod,
Like the small, happy roots you offered back to God.
I remember you most when the warmth is coming,
When the sun is high and the wind is humming,
On the 9th of August, I can only remember
What made that summer as cold as December.