CXXXVII: The Seven Days of August: vii

To Kenneth Grahame

And rain washed out the August heat before

the final days were there before our door,

made green my tomatoes and succulents,

who raised their limbs like ancient supplicants.

And on to bold September. Here we go—

what magic will his anima bestow?

When, into Autumn’s mischief we descend,

what humors will her feyness in us bend?

We’ll be right here, doing what August taught:

all working hard without a second thought,

despite the trees that call us in the wind;

but some will hear them, and their work rescind.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn has played,

and echoes in the trees and in the glade.