Summer's end

Indulge me another bout of verse.

The days grow shorter. Chilly evenings, for some of us, come on. And some illusions die:

God is Good. It is a Beautiful Night

Look round, brown moon, brown bird, as you rise to fly,

Look round at the head and zither

On the ground.

Look round you as you start to rise, brown moon,

At the book and show, the rotted rose

At the door.

This was the place to which you came last night,

Flew close to, flew to without rising away.

Now, again,

In your light, the head is speaking. It reads the book.

It becomes the scholar again, seeking celestial

Rendezvouz,

Picking this music on the rustiest string,

Squeezing the reddest frangrance from the stump

Of summer.

The venerable song falls from your fiery wings.

The song of the great space of your age pierces

The fresh night.

-- Wallace Stevens