  The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold, The early sunsets arc the west with red; The stars are misty silver overhead, Above the dawn Orion lies outrolled. Now all the slopes are slowly growing gold, And in the dales a deeper silence dwells; The crickets mourn with funeral flutes and bells, For days before the summer had grown old. Now the night-gloom with hurrying wings is stirred, Strangely the comrade pipings rise and sink, The birds are following in the pathless dark The footsteps of the pilgrim summer. Hark! Was that the redstart or the bobolink? That lonely cry the summer-hearted bird? |
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