| Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. |
| The insects are scant, skinny. |
| In these palustral homes we only |
| Croak and wither. |
| Mornings dissipate in somnolence. |
| The sun brightens tardily |
| Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. |
| The fen sickens. |
| Frost drops even the spider. Clearly |
| The genius of plenitude |
| Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin |
| Lamentably. |
