Forlorn of all their rakers,

Their hay and harvest makers,

Look green as spring again.

Drops from the trumpet flowers

Rain on us as we pass;

And every zephyr showers,

From tilted leaf or grass,

Clear beads of moisture, seeming

Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming;

Where, through the green boughs streaming,

The daylight strikes like glass.

 She speaks.

How dewy, clean and fragrant

Look now the green and gold!—

[Pg 36]

And breezes trailing vagrant

Spill all the spice they hold.

The west begins to glimmer;

And shadows, stretching slimmer,

Crouch on the ways; and dimmer

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