Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning

The summer skies are darkly blue, The days are still and bright, And Evening trails her robes of gold Through the dim halls of Night.

The shy little may-flower weaves her nest; But the south wind blows o'er the fragrant loam, And betrays the path to her woodland home.

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.

When summer gathers up her robes of glory, And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.

Enchantress of the stormy seas, Priestess of Night's high mysteries!

And still the aster greets us, as we pass, With her faint smile,—among the withered grass.