A phantom roams through the house.

There are footsteps in upstairs rooms.

All day, shades flit through the attic.

Through the house a goblin roams.

He loafs about, gets in the way,

He interferes and causes trouble,

Creeps up to the bed in a dressing gown,

And pulls the cloth off the table.

He does not wipe his feet at the door,

But whirls in with the draft, unseen,

And hurls the curtain to the ceiling

Like a prima ballerina.

Who can this irritating oaf,

This ghost, this phantom be?

Of course, it is our summer guest,

Our visitor on the spree.

For all his little holiday

We let him have the whole house.

July with his tempestuous air

Has rented rooms from us.

July, who brings in thistledown

And burs that cling to his clothes;

July, who treats all windows as doors,

And sprinkles his talk with oaths.

Untidy urchin of the steppe,

Smelling of lime-trees, grass and rye,

Beet-tops, and fragrant fennel,

Meadowsweet breath of July.