Your Sunday Poem

This by Richard Wilbur from his "New and Collected Poems."

Exuent

     Piecemeal the summer dies;
At the field's edge a daisy lives alone;
     A last shawl of burning lies
          On a gray field-stone.

     All cries are thin and terse;
The field has droned the summer's final mass;
     A cricket like a dwindled hearse
          Crawls from the dry grass.