"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Daniel Morgan

Summer leaves; its colors careless
To the moment hardly notice
How the speckled light of dawn
Now weigh its slow appearing
In sudden precious drops of grey.

Or when the cloudburst gave out warning
That autumn calls as on a whim —
The yellow rose found out too late.
It could not quite make up its mind.
And in the swirl of ashes swept
Between the andiron trunks,
The glow was gone, was all used up
Searching for the summer's past.