Blow ye cool winds, let Summer soon be passed,
Let trees their nakedness begin to show,
Let every day be shorter than the last,
Let feathers flee to warmer climes below.
Let now and then an echo of the chill
Be prematurely felt upon the breeze
That with the coming winter months will spill
In preparation for Decemberís freeze.
Let birds their nesting cease and fledglings flee,
Batrachians their thoughts to turn to sleep,
The crowds lose fascination for the sea,
The farmers of the land begin to reap,
The Summer sun burn bright, but fleetingly,
One last kiss as it gives us to the deep.
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