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