is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendor.
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
O tarry, O tarry, declining day,
enchantment, let me stay enchanted.
remains as ever deep and tender.
O last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.
I remember when the horticultural staff at Denver Botanic Gardens would practically dance snow dances to hasten killing frost this time of year: they were so tired of dead-heading annuals, I suppose, and were waiting for...what? Death I suppose? Nothingness?