Again the fair azalea bows

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.

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.

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

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams, through the fringes raining, Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

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

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.