Lord: This is the time. The Summer was immense. Upon the sun-dials now spread out your shade, And on our open doorways loose the winds. Command the ripeness of the harvest’s fruit; Let two last afternoons of southerly warmth Cheer a heavy sweetness to the last wine And overbrim the year’s maturity. The homeless shall not think of building homes. The lonely now will know long loneliness, Will write long letters, read, wake through the night, And down gray avenues, erratic and alone Will wander restless as the blowing leaves.