Classic Poem

Summer is dying, woven in fine gold,
Couched on a purple bed
Of falling garden leaves and twilight clouds
That lave their hearts in red.

The garden is deserted, save where a youth
Saunters, or a maiden walks,
Casting an eye and a sigh after the flight
Of the last and lingering storks.

The heart is orphaned. — Soon a rainy day
Will softly tap the pane.
Look to your boots; patch up your coat. Go, fetch
The potatoes in again.