Aug 312011
 

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.

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