AFTERMATH.
August is hot from the touch of an ardent sun,
Lolling and still in fields and windless places;
Idle all day like a woman with hair undone,
Her feet unshod, her bosom bare of laces.
All her passionate beauty and strength are here,
Complete, and grown to power beyond disguising.
Her flying days are short as the last draw near
And wane, September anear on wings uprising.
Hotter glow her burning eyes and harsh
Where the scythe has bared the grassy slopes and meadows;
On the breathless sea, and the stifled miles of marsh
Where spruce and willow lose the cool of shadows.
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