These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old, old sophistries of June,—
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee!
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till banks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly, through the altered air,
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join!
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to take,
And thine immortal wine!