(9-21-2008 reworked 9-6-2015)
The summer left the way it came,
With little noise and less acclaim;
And for its wasting, I’m to blame –
So many things have stayed the same.
For summer’s end was sure and true
And came at its appointed hour;
And I’m to blame as well as you
If none were there to see it flower.
The warm days of the sun are gone,
The autumn waits its tale to tell;
But sure as grace, we’ll waste it, too,
If we sleep through its days
(Another reworking of an old prose piece. – Owen)