At Summer's End (August 1914) - Poem by John Scully
The muffled-knock of high blown summer,
upon the leaves and grasses August since June,
wrap tightly like bundled flowers,
around the jaundiced seasoned air.
Shaken and solemn the church bells,
under a single sky of coming morn
lonesome, turn the clay-dark hands of time,
while ill-winds blow in gathering storm.
Then in some faraway land, a shot,
far from Englands shore,
under a red scorched earth and bitter sun
an August summer forever gone.
Comments about At Summer's End (August 1914) by John Scully
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.