It was summer's atmosphere of doubt, I said, made me uncertain what I was about; Earth was warm and sure, I was not. I made myself feel the closeness of the crypt. To be by so much richness troubled When wavery air gave me me myself doubled In the very nothingness I breathed and stumbled Was to curse a wealth of gifts assembled. I did not have what I had wished; Nothing did as I did insist. Summer's ripeness came to a million ifs, I had nothing but summer's million gifts. All the lauded grace of giving was Time's; All grace crowded close as living rhymes.