Under the rays of late September's sun, That sicken me and satiate with heat, Where fruits and flowers and odors oversweet Burden the earth with weight of all things done, When old loves end and new are not begun, I linger in the garden with slow feet And wait for hours that once I ran to meet. Of new love's vigor there is now left none, But love is like the garden now and vine That's laden with too heavy fruit of love, With clustered grapes too purple and too hot That, overfull of sickening sweet wine, Hang heavy, lush, from arbors high above, Sink swiftly, strike and leave spilt juice to rot. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST SIGNAL by THOMAS HARDY TRIOLET: THOSE VIOLETS BLUE by H. W. BANKS THE AVENUE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SOCIAL JUSTICE by ERNEST BRADLEY THE SLEEPING MANSION by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THOUGHTS IN A CATHEDRAL by RHYS CARPENTER ONLY MORNING-GLORY THAT FLOWERED by HILDA CONKLING |