Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go, Lay your long shadows on the sundials, And over harvest piles let the winds blow. Command the last fruits to be ripe; Grant them some other southern hour, Urge them to completion, and with power Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape. Who's homeless now, will for long stay alone. No home will build his weary hands, He'll wake, read, write letters long to friends And will the alleys up and down Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.