II
Not mellow sunlight
Slanting to smoky afternoons,
Not brittle stars,
Or flint-brown moons
Stay autumn for summer.
Skyward hot winds stalk crowds
Of heavy-headed clouds;
Spirals of dust spin dizzily
Through crumbling leaves.
Life lures men into words,
Yet from words to deeds is far,
Farther than wise words go.
Browse among slow, sleek herds,
Graze where salt pastures are:
Years bustle—so.
Twigs crackle to eaves-dropping gusts;
Lawns left uncut
For colder years,
Grow wild with weeds.
Dear, petulant wind,
Turning up grey sides of poplar leaves,
Scattering beads of fountain spray through sunlight—
From over tiled housetops,
Up steep, walled streets of cobbled stairs,
You carry, hesitantly,
Faint invitations
From delicate bugles.
Pompeian-red dahlias
Sway pompously for reply—
Fluffy, cushion-soft clouds
Puff up flippantly
Into blue sky:
Poets prance through their paces,
Lament autumns,
