Summer is dying in the purple and gold and russet 
of the falling leaves of the wood, 
and the sunset clouds are dying 
in their own blood. 

In the emptying public gardens 
the last strollers break their walk 
to lift their eyes and follow 
the flight of the last stork. 

The heart is orphaned. Soon 
the cold rains will be drumming. 
'Have you patched your coat for winter! 
Stocked potatoes against its coming?'