by Gideon Burton
Who knows what warmer winds will dress the way
When Autumn comes in cool but firm descent
Or when the angels, burning, kneel to pray
For respite from the fires heaven-sent?
Who yet can see what softness leaves attain
Once wrinkled on the footpaths in the woods,
Or what cool water washes heated brains
And bathes the night and all its starry goods?
I’m certain summer means no malice sore,
And yet the eye of heaven crossly glares,
As though I must be cooked, and cooked some more,
So angrily it radiates its stare.
The stroking heat my patience will outlast;
Would thunderclouds combine, the lightning clash.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - LLacertae