Ii

I see thee quaintly Beneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly-- (As thin as spangle Of cobwebbed rain)--held up at airy angle; I hear thy tinkle With faery notes the silvery stillness sprinkle;

Investing wholly The moonlight with divinest melancholy: Until, in seeming, I see the Spirit of Summer sadly dreaming Amid her ripened orchards, russet-strewn, Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon.