Ritual For Summer Dead

August turns autumnal now: Scarlet the sudden maple-bough At the turn of the wood-road gleams; On the hearth the gray log sings Sleepy songs of vanished things-- Babbling, bubbling John-a-Dreams. August is autumn now.

Find the field where, dead and dry, Under the broad still noontide sky, Bleached in the flow of the bright-blue weather, Stalks of the milkweed stand together. Take the pale-brown pod in hand, Packed with seeds of silvery feather; Wander dreaming through the land. Let each silken plumelet sift Through the fingers, drift and drift, Touched with the sun to rainbow light-- Float--and float--and out of sight!

So might incense drift away. Golden Summer is dead to-day. As a pious thurifer Swing the censer meet for her.