Listen, mes amis, For the change to summer. Dry pines are bristling. Christmas is forgotten. April's incipient blossom Lays rotted. The canvas hammock smiles, Pinned up and greatly weighted. One by one, The summer stars Pink and rayed Enter eventide elated. And the frisson that one feels Barefoot under the stars (one by one Left uncounted) Is not exactly unrelated. Winter's interiors and castles, Warmer rooms and whiter views, Pile up discarded In the summer mind And so summer returns to life Between extremes-- Neither dewy Spring Nor stiff December-- Rotund orator of repeated suns, Halcyon mind increased and crested, Profoundest player of cards, Purveyor of flippant fun. Summer comes, itself Extreme in sunshine, Raconteur of revels, afternoon pomps Of tea, sloe gin fizzes Piling up and up-- As neglected dusts infect Minutest corners Of a sleepy eye. But listen, too, mes amis, At how, afar off, Beyond acutest blues, The apt ear hears, inherently hears, Autumn's tom-tom.