Monday, September 22, 2008

It's Autumn

"Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer." Sara Teasdale

1 comment:

Doris said...

What a lovely poem! So fittimg for this autumn of incessant insects!