This is the month when sun and wind contend 
For the possession of that lapis, thinned 
To milkiest opal, that is pure bare sky. 
A cloud-puff is a milkweed soberly 
Shredded by breezes with the fists of boys. 
Only to breathe the air is to grow wise 
On a transparent liquor, to grow still 
As the unherded ruminants who kneel 
On the horizon as against a wall — 
The hornless hills that want nor barn nor bell. 
A butterfly drifts down without a sound, 
Proving it is no leaf of sudden brown 
To whisk along the floor. The boughs, the turf, 
Hug their thick green as though it were a scarf 
Against adventuring chill. Few and small, 
The russet tongues of the barberry thrill 
The hairy verdure with a tinge of fire. 
Now apple-seeds grow black, now seeds of pear; 
Now the grapes tighten; meadows shake like seas, 
And rivers are more level than the fields. 
Shadows lie late, their long, drowsy limbs 
Spread on the grass; before dusk falls, the winds 
Cease, with all noises but the crickets' din; 
Poor death's asleep, and we'll not waken him.