Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds.
Flies fail us. he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider.
Clearly The genius of plenitude Houses himself elsewhwere.
Our folk thin Lamentably.
