Richard Wilbur

 Next Poem          

Piecemeal the summer dies;
At the field's edge a daisy lives alone;
A last shawl of burning lies
On a gray field-stone.

All cries are thin and terse;
The field has droned the summer's final mass;
A cricket like a dwindled hearse
Crawls from the dry grass.

Next Poem 

 Back to Richard Wilbur

To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.