Upon Summer's Predicted But Sudden Retreat
The
bacchanal is over;
Her
psychic mist has fled
The plane of
human toil
For
repast with the dead.
And settles leaf per instance
From
heaven to the ground,
For man to quick recover
As summer’s
pyre mound,
Of nomads’
heathen graces
For ev’ry shred of cloth,
Made one for each the races,
And one for ev’ry cough;
The northern breezes billow,
The sun is somehow cold;
The grasses green turn yellow,
And midnight has
paroled;
But robin wakes me chirping,
And perches in the frost
Awaiting dearest
Bacchus,
Forgetting he’d been lost.