here's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
Singing: -- "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
And your English summer's done."

Mark Sinker posted some really lovely verse on this ilx thread about poetry and the nature of poetics. Its Kipling. He didnt authour it, so i wouldn't pick it apart the minute i saw the last name.