GONE.
A silent, odor-laden air,
From heavy branches dropping balm;
A crowd of daisies milky fair,
That sunward turn their faces calm.
So rapt, a bird alone may dare
To stir their rapture with his psalm.
From heavy branches dropping balm;
A crowd of daisies milky fair,
That sunward turn their faces calm.
So rapt, a bird alone may dare
To stir their rapture with his psalm.
So falls the perfect day of June
To moonlit eve, from dewy dawn,
With light winds rustling through the noon,
And conscious roses half withdrawn,
In blushing buds that wake too soon,
To flaunt their hearts on every lawn.
To moonlit eve, from dewy dawn,
With light winds rustling through the noon,
And conscious roses half withdrawn,
In blushing buds that wake too soon,
To flaunt their hearts on every lawn.
The wide content of summer's bloom,
The peaceful glory of its prime;
Yet over all a brooding gloom,
A desolation born of time;
As distant storm-caps tower and loom,
And shroud the sun with heights sublime.
The peaceful glory of its prime;
Yet over all a brooding gloom,
A desolation born of time;
As distant storm-caps tower and loom,
And shroud the sun with heights sublime.
