Lord: it is time. The summer was very large
Lay your shadows on the sundials
And set the winds loose in the fields.

Let the last fruits be full;
give them yet two southerly days
press them well and hunt out
the last sweetness in the heavy wine.

Who has yet built no house will not build one,
Who is yet alone, will long be alone,
will be watchful, read, write long letters
and will wander ill at ease among the avenues,
when the leaves fall.