I

In the summer of the summer, when the hazy air is sweet With the breath of crimson clover, and the day’s a-shine with heat, When the sky is blue and burning and the clouds a downy mass, When the breeze is idly dawdling, there is music in the grass— Just a thistly, whistly sound In the tangles near the ground; And the flitting fairies often stop to listen as they pass. Just a lisping, whisp’ring tune, Like a bumblebee’s bassoon, In a far-away fantasia, is the music in the grass.