In the brown grasses slanting with the wind,
Lone as a lad whose dog’s no longer near,
Lone as a mother whose only child has sinned,
Lone on the loved hill.... And below me here
The thistle-down in tremulous atmosphere
Along red clusters of the sumach streams;
The shrivelled stalks of goldenrod are sere,
And crisp and white their flashing old racemes.
(... forever ... forever ... forever ...)
This is the lonely season of the year,