August

O the sun in August,
Is hot and weary.
Too much of heat,
The eyes are teary.

Sweat has no bulwark,
To steer its course.
All over the body,
It runs with force.

The air is heavy,
And comfort is not.
And for a cool place,
We have earnestly sought.

Could bits of moisture,
Act like a clown.
And fill the dry parches,
As it makes its way down.

For sultry is August,
And endowed with the power.
To dry-up its seed-pods,
That come from the flower.


E.P. 1908 - 1989