August

I see an august field beneath
An auburn sprawl of curling sun,
And crawling on a zephyr's breeze
To turn the landscape lush from heath
A taste of the sweet autumn's freeze
That, offering varieties,
Has in the Fate's own weavings spun
A wordless future now begun.

For even if the future's bite
Will hide the nurturings long past
No time is spent, too slow or fast,
That won't with all its glory fight
To have desires filled at last
And make its place
Out in that field, where laureled grace
For its own sake is worn upright.

To not just see but tend those fields,
Where never ending harvest yields
Ambrosial pleasure past sublime:
All grievances are healed
And happiness grown any time.
O summer sun, give me August
There's no reward for me more just.

July 1