Willow Grove
Still the dissembling music floats, Corrupt, deciduous, and gay. The leaves come down like notes, the notes Like leaves; the players put away
Their racks and instruments; they hurry, Faster than usual; the park, For once, lacks dawdlers; people worry; The air is prematurely dark.
Dark, and a storm may come. The wind Lifts for a moment, sweeps the square Of litter, leaves, and leaflets, thinned By the low rush of restless air.
While one, reluctant, from his scene Of triumph, snaps his case, and goes Down the brief stair, across the green, Unhappy at the season's close.
But even he, at last, is gone, By his own sorrow overtaken. Frail island in a desert lawn, The ugly kiosk stands, forsaken.
Light, coming quickly under the cloud, Slants bright, illumining, too late, A golden shrine behind a crowd Bent for the outer iron gate,
Nervous, intent, beyond recall, Gone, now, too far to hear again The final drops of music fall With the first single notes of rain.