A WET AUGUST
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INE drops of water bead the jessamine,And nine-and-ninety smear the stones and tiles:—’Twas not so in that August—full-rayed, fine—When we lived out-of-doors, sang songs, strode miles. Or was there then no noted radiancyOf summer? Were dun clouds, a dribbling bough,Gilt over by the light I bore in me,And was the waste world just the same as now? It can have been so: yea, that threateningsOf coming down-drip on the sunless gray,By the then possibilities in thingsWere wrought more bright than brightest skies to-day. 1920.
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