Late Summer

I, dusty and bedraggled ad I am,
Postered with wasps and weeds and making jam,
Blowzy and stale, my welcome long outstayed,
Proved false every promise that I made,
At my beginning I believed, like you,
Something would come of all my green and blue.
Mortals remember, looking on the thing
I am, that I, even I, was once a spring.




~C S Lewis