The muffled-knock of high blown summer,
upon the leaves and grasses August since June,
wrap tightly like bundled flowers,
around the jaundiced seasoned air.
Shaken and solemn the church bells,
under a single sky of coming morn
lonesome, turn the clay-dark hands of time,
while ill-winds blow in gathering storm.
Then in some faraway land, a shot,
far from Englands shore,
under a red scorched earth and bitter sun
an August summer forever gone.
John Scully
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-summer-s-end-august-1914/
