They lie in the road like maple-litter strands,
their dull, dull stings are sheathed and crumbling knives;
they press the goading screen -- my unstung hands --
too old, too old to wish for other lives.
It doesn't bode well for the black-gold bands.
they stumble, stumble home to their bare hives:
this summer has showed too cold to move by dance,
and the fading, fading sun never arrives.