(sonnet # CLXXXVI)
CLXXXVI
Dear August's when the summer half-debates
With autumn's charms and gives a taste of those
Fair days when passion's heat quite faded blows
A cooling strain; when azure heaven sates
The longings and the air more dry abates
Its sultry tang as grain nigh ripened glows;
Mere morning's dewy haze remains; the close
Of harvest in its wake this month awaits.
It's summer still, for certain, though the fall
Now hints somehow, and ever subtly lures
Within its days; while barefoot play withal
Yet lingers, winds give sense the end bestirs.
Sweet days I ever cherish for their call:
That last chance, as of autumn harbingers.
05/06Aug11