My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape—dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird—abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,
 
And I her son, though summer—born
And summer—loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can’t confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

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