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Summer grass aches and whispers.
It wants something; it calls and sings; it pours
out wishes to the overhead stars.
The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow
coming; the rain wets the face of the grass.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 23, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers. Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
Night from a railroad car window
Is a great, dark, soft thing
Broken across with slashes of light.