The thread of summer draws away,
A ball of color, fades and grays...
And leaves that once were gold with growth
Have fallen, brass, upon the coast.
The curving mouths of shores are seen
In silver tides instead of green
And somewhere, jackdaws cry, "It's come!"
The winter, with her friend autumn.
A hope, a hope in winds remain
That heat still tempers out the rain
That life, however brief its course
Continues on, though sounding hoarse.
A bluebird turns his little eye
Surveys the lawn, the field, the rye
Its salmon beak seems yet to say,
"Oh, summer, won't you come to stay?"
With memories of open skies
And stroking wings, and breezy sighs
It seems a cruel act of God
To change the color of the sod.
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