Now it is September and the web is woven.
Now the web is woven and you have to wear it.
The winter is made and you have to bear it,
The winder web, the winter woven, wind and wind,
For all the thoughts of summer that go with it
In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
It is the mind that is woven, the mind that was jerked
And tufted in straggling thunder and shattered sun.
It is all that you are, the final dwarf of you,
That is woven and waiting to be worn,
Neither as mask nor as garment but as being,
Torn from insipid summer, for the mirror of cold,
Sitting beside your lamp, there citron to nibble
And coffee dribble . . . Frost is in the stubble.
So, what I'm saying, friends, is that it's Wallace Stevens time. Fall is upon is, the crow has scared and so on. Wine at night with friends in the yard. Something is leaving, but it feels good.