September 1922

    We'll to the weeds no more,
    The laurels are all cut,
    The bowers are bare of bay
    That once the Muses wore;
    The year draws in the day
    And soon will evening shut:
    The laurels all are cut,
    We'll to the woods no more.
    Oh we'll no more, no more
    To the leafy woods away,
    To the high wild woods of laurel
    And the bowers of bay no more.