Like the darling buds of May, the splendid days
Roughly chased by heat, hanging heavy like a sigh
When the blessed dragonflies dodge and drift
And shift upon the last small cloud clear sky.
No warning call, calendar, schedule or almanac;
In its own clear determined choosing
The heavy weighted weather pushes in
Above our bellyaching lament and ill thought refusing.
Weighted like a folded sheet, this lumbering swelter heists
Our fresh, clear and golden ways;
And no as we like, we submit as weather says “Oh yes”
And we sit quiet and count away the days.
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