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Not mellow sunlight Slanting to smoky afternoons, Not brittle stars, Or flint-brown moons Stay autumn for summer. Skyward hot winds stalk crowds Of heavy-headed clouds; Spirals of dust spin dizzily Through crumbling leaves.

Life lures men into words, Yet from words to deeds is far, Farther than wise words go. Browse among slow, sleek herds, Graze where salt pastures are: Years bustle—so.

Twigs crackle to eaves-dropping gusts; Lawns left uncut For colder years, Grow wild with weeds. Dear, petulant wind, Turning up grey sides of poplar leaves, Scattering beads of fountain spray through sunlight— From over tiled housetops, Up steep, walled streets of cobbled stairs, You carry, hesitantly, Faint invitations From delicate bugles.

Pompeian-red dahlias Sway pompously for reply— Fluffy, cushion-soft clouds Puff up flippantly Into blue sky: Poets prance through their paces, Lament autumns,