The heat had set in as the summer began.
I had just ceased to sing winter's sore tune.
And rested my arm on the forgotten farmer
of all that I can call my fortune.

Fall broke the beak of the small bird
that beat in his breast and out through his heels.
And I heartsunk to think of its stammering wings
beneath heavy and relentless wheels.

I pulled up in the evening, while he was still sleeping.
Out jumped I and ran 'cross his floor.
And there he lay, white, and a guardian darling,
caught up in slumber and I caught at his door.
"He blushes, therefore he is guilty," cried I,
"of some private reverie grand!"
So I took him and shook him and made to unhook him
by squeezing and slapping his hand.

The slow look of a blank book hung where we met.
And he slept in the depths of his bed.
And I, oh, kissed the sweat from his head.
Right or wrong, to him alone I come to be fed.

I said, "Come back to me, love! Come comet or dove,
to my garden, come bladed or bled."

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