The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, / The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence / Under a moon waning and worn, broken, / Tired with summer. ~ September Midnight, Sara Teasdale
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, / The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence / Under a moon waning and worn, broken, / Tired with summer. ~ September Midnight, Sara Teasdale