Ii

This month--’tis August--the lane that leads To the bramble-bridge runs waste with weeds, That bloom bright saffron, or satin seeds Of thistle-fleece blow at you, hazy: Starry the lane with the thousand bredes Of the yellow daisy, and bud-like beads Of marigold eyes, around which speeds The butterfly, sumptuous with mottle and lazy; Whereunder the pewee picks and pleads, On the sumach’s tassel that dips to the daisy.