Classic Poem

Dear heart, the summer draweth to a close:
Pensive, I read the signs on every side.
Blown down the wind the petals of the rose,
And brown the uplands once with flowerets pied.

The corn is waving, waving, Annie dear,
And fledgling birds make trial of their wings;
For lack o' rain the hills are dull and sere,
The singing woodland brook no longer sings.

The katydid rasps to the moon's pale rays,
And goldenrod already gilds the field;
The sun moves south, and shorter grow the days;
The farmer garners what his acres yield.

And you who dwell in cities, too, may know
That summer's well-known bloom begins to pale.
A certain sign you see where'er you go —
One sign that tells the melancholy tale:
" Straw Hats, 75 cents . "