Song for September

Respect the dreams of old men, said the cricket, Summer
behind the song, the streams filling Ledge to ledge in the
mountains where clouds come. Attend the old men who
wander
Daylight and evening in the air grown cold, Time thins,
leaving their will to wind and whispers; The bells are
swallowed gently under ground.

Because in time the birds will leave this country, Waning
south, not to return again;
Because we walk in gardens among grasses, Touching
the garments of the wind that passes, Dimming our eyes—

Give benches to the old men, said the cricket, Listening by
cool ways to the world that dies Fainter than seas drawn off
from mist and stone. The rain that speaks at night is the
prayer’s answer. What are dry phantoms to the old men
Lying at night alone?

They are not here whose gestures we have known, Their
hands in the dusk, their frail hair in the sun.