Lord: It is time. The summer days were grand. Now set Thy shadows out across the sun-dials And set the winds loose on the meadowland. Bid the last fruits grow full upon the vine, do them the good of two more southern days then thrust them on to their fulfillment, chase the final sweetness into bodied wine. Whoever has no house yet will build none, Whoever is alone will stay alone And stay up, write long letters out, and go Through avenues to wander on his own Uneasily when leaves begin to blow.