End of August

 Lyric night  of the lingering Indian Summer....

 Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,

 Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects.....

 Ceaseless and insistent.

 The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples

 The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence,

 Under a moon waning and worn and broken,

 TIRED WITH SUMMER...............

 Let me remember you, voices of little insects,

 Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,

 Let me remember you,

 Soon will the winter be on us....

 Snow hushed and heartless...

 Over my soul .........................

 murmur your mute benediction

 While I gaze,

 oh fields that rest after harvest...

 As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,

  Lest they forget them....

 "Indian Summer" by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) (Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale. Introduction by Marya Zaturenska 1966)