<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h3><SPAN name="END_OF_SUMMER" id="END_OF_SUMMER"></SPAN>THE END OF SUMMER</h3>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Pods are the poppies, and slim spires of pods<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The hollyhocks; the balsam’s pearly bredes<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Of rose-stained snow are little sacs of seeds<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Collapsing at a touch; the lote, that sods<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The pond with green, has changed its flowers to rods<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And discs of vesicles; and all the weeds,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Around the sleepy water and its reeds,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Are one white smoke of seeded silk that nods.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Summer is dead, ay me! sweet Summer’s dead!<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The sunset clouds have built her funeral pyre,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Through which, e’en now, runs subterranean fire:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While from the East, as from a garden-bed,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Mist-vined, the Dusk lifts her broad moon—like some<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Great golden melon—saying, “Fall has come.”<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_476" id="page_476"></SPAN>{476}</span><br/></span></div>
</div></div>
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