Dead in the summer, there are days
The asphalt floats in curling haze;
Chess-pieces sweat from games half-played
Near flowers wilting in the shade.
At lunchtime, still, the sidewalks fill,
And people test the summer's will.
Standing in sun, they sweat, complain,
And wish for snow-or even rain.
And I too stand and wish for snow,
Though there are cooler spots to go.
It is the human heart's unreason
To dare the brunt of every season.