  The cherry trees are haunted By hordes of robber jays, And warmer winds are fanning The poppies to a blaze. And loosed in fitful flurries, The sweet syringas fall, To lie like little snow-drifts Against the garden wall. Upon the laden lattice, In softly rounding shapes, A wealth of tiny clusters Are growing into grapes. Heigho! a drowsy shimmer Enfolds the sunny hours; And humming-birds are hidden In scarlet trumpet-flowers. The tenderness of springtime Is almost overpast; But O, the gracious summer, It comes, it comes at last!
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