After A Night Of Rain

The rain made ruin of the rose and frayed The lily into tatters: now the Morn Looks from the hopeless East with eyes forlorn, As from her attic looks a dull-eyed maid. The coreopsis drips; the sunflowers fade; The garden reeks with rain: beneath the thorn The toadstools crowd their rims where, dim of horn, The slow snail slimes the grasses gaunt and greyed. Like some pale nun, in penitential weeds, Weary with weeping, telling sad her beads, Her rosary of pods of hollyhocks, September comes, heavy of heart and head, While in her path the draggled four-o'-clocks Droop all their flowers, saying, 'Summer's dead.'