It waits at the threshold of autumn's birth;
 A summertime month, the youngest of three,
Whose lingered promises still tempt the Earth
 With love predestined for fond memory.
So what shall become of the romanced hearts
 That sprang from the fires of summer and soul;
When shorter days dawn and leisure departs,
 Will they be found broken or remain whole?
Perhaps it is wrong to ask such a thing
 And foolish to ponder what might befall;
For knowing the future might only bring
 A reluctance to try loving at all.

  Act swiftly, for August shall surely end
   And deny the true love the fates intend.