Now doth the heaviness of summer bloom
Die on the air, and from the neighbour wood
The brown earth good
Breathes sweeter incense, born of many leaves;
And every insect grieves
At coming frost, chill in the holly’s gloom;
Flutters in paler light, then wraps her round
In her torn summer robe, and dies forlorn
Upon the dew-sprent ground.
The blue mist in the valley rises slow;
Rises till she attain the topmost tree
Of all that be
Upon the slopes of mead and stubble-field;
Then when the sun has wheeled
His round, now short and drooping very low,
Lies still and fills the vale from side to side,
And scents it with all sweets the heavens know
In any countryside.
1915.