Desperate sad summer has left me again. She comes along so quietly and hushes her perfumed blossom. I succumb to dream a never ending dream. Superb and serene clouds play chiding incantations. Early wheat swoon broadly across a July's wind. The great greened mountains rise in a pronouncement of heightened belief in such blessing.
The tomorrow of now cannot,will not, come to anything that is real beyond the reach of a rising August dawn,

which has turned so deftly to the bland gauze of september