In August

All the long August afternoon,

The little drowsy stream

Whispers a melancholy tune,

As if it dreamed of June,

And whispered in its dream.

August Flowers

Bebe McGarry

The thistles show beyond the brook

Dust on their down and bloom,

And out of many a weed-grown nook

The aster flowers look

With eyes of tender gloom.

The silent orchards aisles are sweet

With smell of ripening fruit.

Through the sere grass, in shy retreat

Flutter, at coming feet,

The robins strange and mute.

Summer Retreat

Lisa Stauffer

There is no wind to stir the leaves,

The harsh leaves overhead;

Only the querulous cricket grieves,

And shrilling locust weaves

A song of summer dead.

"In August"

William Dean Howells

(1837-1920)

American novelist, critic, and playwright,

nicknamed, "The Dean of American Letters"