For instance: this week could have passed for high summer. Then, as I turned a corner on a sunny afternoon walk, I saw in the distance a row of trees whose upper leaves had turned red and orange and yellow. The bright boughs swayed against the sky-blue sky.
"Summer Is Ended"
To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless, colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
Thus with our bliss,
If we wait till the close?
Tho' we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
Sooner, later, at last,
Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
An end locked fast,
Bent we cannot re-bend.
Christina Rossetti, A Pageant and Other Poems (1881).
Sine MacKinnon (1901-1996), "Vent D'est in Early Autumn in Provence"
She walketh like a ghost,
Lovely and gray
And faint, faint, faint . . .
Ere Autumn's host
Of colours gay
Breaks on the year, September
Comes sighing her soft plaint,
Remember what? All fair
Warm loves now wan:
All fleet, fleet, fleet
Flowers in the hair
Of Summers gone!
Though fruit break rosy, of these
Are her most sweet
Most faint and tender
Sighing, sighing, sighing,
A voice to lend her.
Surely it breaketh
Even Death's heart, as he goes
To gather in Summer's long-dying
So drifting like a ghost,
Lovely with dream
And faint, faint, faint,
Sighing 'remember,' almost
September did seem
My gray soul's image, as she
Whispered over that plaint
F. W. Harvey, September and Other Poems (1925).
Sine MacKinnon, "Mending Nets, St. Tropez"
When in still air and still in summertime
A leaf has had enough of this, it seems
To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage
Its drifting in detachment down the road.
Howard Nemerov, Gnomes & Occasions (1973).
Sine MacKinnon, "The Old Houses of the Fishing Village"