The Gentle South

AFTER dark vapours have oppressed our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved from its pains, Takes as a long-lost sight the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. The calmest thoughts come round us—as of leaves Budding; fruit ripening in stillness; autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves; Sweet Sappho’s cheek; a sleeping infant’s breath; The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs; A woodland rivulet; a poet’s death.