Lord: it is time. The summer was so grand. Upon sundials now Thy shadow lay, Set free Thy winds and send them over the land. Command to ripen those last fruits of Thine; And give them two more southern days of grace To reach their perfect fullness, and then chase The final sweetness into heavy wine. Who now is homeless, never will build a home. Who now is lonely, long alone will stay, Will watch and read and write long letters gray, And in the long lanes to and fro will roam All restless, as the drifting fall-leaves stray. |