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Lord, it is time. Summer was very grand.
Now cast your shadow on the sundials,
and loose the winds on the open fields.


Command the last fruits to be full;
give them two more southerly days.
Force them into perfection and chase
the last sweetness into heavy wine.


Who has no house will not build one now.
Who is now alone will stay alone,
will wake and read and write long letters
and wander up and down the streets
restlessly, driven like leaves.