by Elizabeth Bishop
Summer is over upon the sea.
The pleasure yacht, the social being,
that danced on the endless polished floor,
stepped and side-stepped like Fred Astaire,
is gone, is gone, docked somewhere ashore.
The friends have left, the sea is bare
that was strewn with floating, fresh green weeds.
Only the rusted-sided freighters
go past the moon's marketless craters
and the stars are the only ships of pleasure.