The Numbered Evenings

Almost, almost, almost the end of summer.
The crickets sing feverishly in the bracken,
And the catbird calls mockingly from his bough.
Almost, almost, almost the end of summer.

Almost, almost the end of those high times
When we lay, feverish, beneath the stars,
Spent with sweat and our bodies' shaking;
Almost the end of those high times.

Almost, almost the end of those dark nights
When we let hands speak for lips and words,
And our tongues held a different converse yet-
Almost, almost the end of those dark nights.

Almost, almost the end of those endless hours
When the stars wheeled across the sky,
Not dancing more than our bodies did below;
Almost, almost the end of those endless hours.

Almost, almost the end of numbered evenings,
The sweetness and the bitterness both combined,
Because we knew from the first day it would not survive;
Almost, almost the end of numbered evenings.

Almost, almost, almost the end of summer.
Almost the end of this bittersweet thing,
This summer romance's dying-time.
Almost, almost, almost the end of summer.

But we have time for one more dance yet.
Come with me, to dance beneath the wheeling stars,
To be lovers while the crickets sing like fever:
Almost, almost, almost the end of summer.