The thistles, rooted out, throng in again;

The single regal rose is mobbed by weeds;

The plums, the pears, the ripening apples, rain

In the sun; and past summer plants new seeds.


The chaffinch looks around the world, and takes

His time with August: even wasps relax -

Late afternoon, their metric buzzing breaks

Off, as though they were bees and the light wax.


Here, or there, these common yearly things

Repeat, repeat, and gardens do not range:

Yet thistles, roses, fruit trees, birds, and stings

Come to an end, and the church bells sound a change.


These many soft declensions of the day,

So hard to take to heart, bear life away.