TOWARD SEPTEMBER
COUCHED in some secret place beside the way, A cricket makes the sole sound of the noon, Piping the parched grass full of his keen tune, All that is left the town of yesterday. Out in the square the fountains thinly play; And underneath its cobwebbed hedges strewn, A hundred shifting sparks of fire and June, The last rose lies. Upon the pavements gray, The leaves, new-fallen, crackle as I pass; Row after row, the silent houses stand, Fast-barred, a month's dust thick on blind and stair. At the street's foot, the river flames like brass; And out beyond the wharves and smoky land, Tall ships go sailing seaward through the glare.