My mother, who hates thunder storms, br Holds up each summer day and shakes br It out suspiciously, lest swarms br Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there; br But when the August weather breaks br And rains begin, and brittle frost br Sharpens the bird-abandoned air, br Her worried summer look is lost, br br And I her son, though summer-born br And summer-loving, none the less br Am easier when the leaves are gone br Too often summer days appear br Emblems of perfect happiness br I can't confront: I must await br A time less bold, less rich, less clear: br An autumn more appropriate.