Your noons are hot, your nights deep-starred, There is honeysuckle still in the yard, Fall of the quail and the firefly-glows And the pot-pourri of the rambler-rose, Fall that brings no promise of snows⁠ ⁠…

Wingate checked on his horse’s rein With a hand as light as a butterfly And drank content in body and brain As he gazed for a moment at the sky.