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, Thy fairy notes, the silvery stillness sprinkle; Investing wholly The moonlight with divinest melancholy: Until, in seeming, I see the Spirit of the Summer dreaming Amid her ripened orchards, apple-strewn, Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon.