Where are the songs of Summer? With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
'Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm, odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—away, away,
On panting wings, through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey,
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.