XXXIII

The time of the silence Of birds is upon us: Rust in the chestnut leaf, Dust in the stubble: The turn of the Year And the call to decay.

Stately and splendid, The Summer passes: Sad with satiety, Sick with fulfilment; Spent and consumed, But august till the end.

By wilting hedgerows And white-hot highways, Bearing its memories Even as a burden, The tired heart plods For a place of rest.