ON August evenings mists arise;
They ease the edge of everything;
They shade the crimson in the skies,
And hush the cornfields; and they bring
A mist about my eyes.
Feebly the weed-heap fumes away;
Sweet is the smell, but strange and strong.
'Tis night; an hour ago 'twas day;
Autumn is in a month; how long
Seems it, since it was May?
by Archibald Young Campbell (1885–1958)
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