Summer

It comes in, summer,

With its warm birds in the new mornings,

And warm leaves in a new month,

Made up of heated reds and greens,

And slow whites, near slow waters.

It has fountains,

From which the sun peers,

And rivers in which

Summer morning rains come

To be followed by willing warmth

And a voluntary sun,

And an inclined head,

And a rage that spreads smoothly

Over landscape, roofs and chains,

Till a bird,

So affected,

Flies towards a face

Made warm newly

In the old appreciating fashion

Of heat beneficently disposed

Towards warm animals—and leaves.