It's always August 31st,
In the last week of August,
It's always August,
That makes beautiful things.

It's always the first fading trees,
In the forests around this house,
It's always the thought of coming fall,
That makes us forget winter's creeping jaws.

It's always the first winds of fall's fading,
In the empty chapels and lonesome evergreens,
It's always the feeling of ignorant cold,
That makes people run to what's not meant to be.

It's always spring's first flirting's,
In the midst of things you thought you wanted,
It's always those who love you,
That show you how better things will be.