A Wraith Of Summertime.

In its color, shade and shine, 'T was a summer warm as wine, With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine, And a fragrance and a taste Of ripe roses gone to waste, And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced. 'Twas a summer such as broods O'er enchanted solitudes, Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods, And with lavish love out-pours All the wealth of out-of-doors, And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors. 'Twas a summertime long dead,— And its roses, white and red, And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed,— O they all are ghostly things— For the ripple never sings, And the rocking lily never even rustles as it rings!