Lord, it is time. The summer was so great
Impose upon the sundials now your shadows
And around the meadows let the winds rotate

Commands the last fruits to incarnadine;
Vouchsafe, to urge them on into completeness
Yet two more south-like days; and that last sweetness
Inveigle it into the heavy vine

He'll not build now, who has no house awaiting
Who's now alone, for long will so remain:
Sit late, read, write long letters, and again
Return to restlessly perambulating
The avеnues of parks when leavеs downrain