The thistles, rooted out, throng in again;
The single regal rose is mobbed by weeds;
The plums, the pears, the ripening apples, rain
In the sun; and past summer plants new seeds.
The chaffinch looks around the world, and takes
His time with August: even wasps relax -
Late afternoon, their metric buzzing breaks
Off, as though they were bees and the light wax.
Here, or there, these common yearly things
Repeat, repeat, and gardens do not range:
Yet thistles, roses, fruit trees, birds, and stings
Come to an end, and the church bells sound a change.
These many soft declensions of the day,
So hard to take to heart, bear life away.