In Oct. 20th New Yorker I have come across Philip Larkin's poem
WE MET AT THE END OF THE PARTY
We met at the end of the party
When most of the drinks were dead
And all the glasses dirty:
"Have this that's left," you said.
We walked through the last of summer,
When shadows reached long and blue
Across days that were growing shorter:
You said: "There is autumn too."
Always for you what's finished
Is nothing, and what survives
Cancels the failed, the famished,
As if we had fresh lives
From that night on, and just living
Could make me unaware
Of June, and the guests arriving,
And I not there.
..."And no birds sing" rings in my ear.