Lord, it is time. The summer was so great.

Impose upon the sundials now your shadows

and round the meadows let the winds rotate.

Command the last fruits to incarnadine;

vouchsafe, to urge them on into completeness,

yet two more south-like days; and that last sweetness,

inveigle it into the heavy vine.

He'll not build now, who has no house awaiting.

Who's now alone, for long will so remain:

sit late, read, write long letters, and again

return to restlessly perambulating

the avenues of parks when leaves downrain.

Trans. Unknown