After the fierce midsummer all ablaze

He burned itself into ashes, and expires in the intensity of its own fires,

There come the mellow, mild, St.Martin days

Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.

So after Love had led us, till he tires

Of his own throes, and torments, and desires,

Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze

He beckons us to follow, and across

Cool verdant vales we wander free from care

Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?

Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?

We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;

And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

-Ella Wheeler Wilcox-