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  • By Daniel Leach

Late Summer

Late summer, and the silvery undersides

Of the leaves shimmer in the hazy air,

And the cicadas’ song wells up in tides

That wash over my soul, and everywhere

The world seems as if in an opium dream,

Or born along on some enchanted stream.

Soon will these leaves feel autumn’s first cold bite,

And lie in brittle heaps upon the ground,

But they, and I, care not—the coming night

Will find us dreaming still, the drowsy sound

Of crickets will the dream-song’s vigil keep,

And lull us like innocent babes to sleep.

It was a day like this, long, long ago,

A boy lay dreaming on a grassy hill,

And felt all wisdom he could ever know,

Was in that moment—and that boy is still

Dreaming, still to that sacred song awake,

Though worlds of men and time itself forsake.

Daniel is a poet living in Houston, Texas. He has spent much of his life fighting for the ideals of classical culture and poetry. His latest volumes of poetry are Voices on the Wind and Places the Soul Goes.

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