Hah!

I found a cluster of three late-blooming jasmine blossoms hidden among the leaves of the hedge. Leaning very close, I could catch a faint ghost of their perfume. May is gone and June is gone, and the fragrance made me regret their passing. Summer is a dissatisfying season. I miss the lengthening evenings of spring, but anticipate the melancholy, early dusks of early autumn. The heat of July leaves me exhausted and ill prepared to resist the onslaught of both nostalgia and melancholy. What a sad month this is, and August is apt to be even sadder.

This is the moping season, and only a few things can distract me from this mood. Today I ate a ripe plum, which pleased me for a while, and tonight I am driving the sadness hence with watermelon. Even as I enjoy them, I remember that these gifts of summer are spring's and winter's work. Perhaps they would not reach full ripeness without summer's heat, but it was in the spring that they germinated and grew, and the stored-up winter rain nourished them. Summer contributes very little to the few pleasures it brings. Spring and winter let me sneer at its overbearing days. Take that, July! Maybe you'll turn this sweetness to sweat tomorrow, but tonight I let the juice drip down my chin, and give not a fig for your intemperate depredations.