Classic Poem

In my garden now
I hear the cricket cry
Telling Summertime
“Good-by! Good-by!”

I see the first red leaves
And brown leaves fall,
Birds come in flocks
And do not sing at all.

Grapes have a pleasant smell,
And I know a place
Where they hang white and sweet
Against leaves like lace.

Coxcomb like the cry
Of a wounded thing,
Lifts its red head high,
Late blossoming.

Beloved of honey bees,
The orange marigold
Aromatic, spreads
Fold on starry fold.

In the vivid throng
Here fringed asters are,
Each one with a heart
Like a friendly star.

Sometimes it seems it me
That my garden tries
To give me all it can
Before it dies.

If you will visit me,
You'll hear the cricket cry
Telling Summertime
“Good-by! Good-by!”