At the Season's End

A FEW more days in this unkind July,
This moon of stormy countenance livid and wan,
And you will hence have journeyed to put on
The moors and mountains like a robe laid by
And brought forth dipped in Nature's Tyrian dye.
For me, here lingering where your light hath shone,
A glamour will have passed, a witchery gone,
A vapid earth will wear a vacant sky.

Yet none the less our London as of old
Will throb with passionate heart-beats day by day,
And tower and spire will catch the dear last ray
Of suns that bid adieu with kiss of gold:
Thames will roll on, as long ago he rolled:
But 'mid wild glens you will be far away.
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