in the over-grown grasses

Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box, of white roses

And of phlox. And upon a honeysuckle branch

Three snails hanging with infinite delicacy

Clinging like tendril, flake and thread, as self-tormented

And self-delighted as any ballerina,

just as in the orchard,

Near the apple trees, in the over-grown grasses

Drunken wasps clung to over-ripe pears

Which had fallen: swollen and disfigured.

For now it is wholly autumn ...
Delmore Schwartz