Oh, little rose tree, bloom!
Summer is nearly over.
The dahlias bleed, and the phlox is seed,
Nothing's left of the clover,
And the path of the poppy no one knows.
I would blossom if I were a rose.

Summer, for all your guile,
Will brown in a week to Autumn,
And launched leaves throw a shadow below
Over the brook's clear bottom, --
And the chariest bud the year can boast
Be brought to bloom by the chastening frost.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay