The Close Of Summer

The wild-plum tree, whose leaves grow thin, Has strewn the way with half its fruit: The grasshopper's and cricket's din Grows hushed and mute; The veery seems a far-off flute Where Summer listens, hand on chin, And taps an idle foot. A silvery haze veils half the hills, That crown themselves with clouds like cream; The crow its clamor almost stills, The hawk its scream; The aster stars begin to gleam; And 'mid them, by the sleepy rills, The Summer dreams her dream. The butterfly upon its weed Droops as if weary of its wings; The bee, 'mid blooms that turn to seed, Half-hearted clings, Sick of the only song it sings, While Summer tunes a drowsy reed And dreams of far-off things. Passion, of which unrest is part, That filled with ardor all her hours, Burns low within her quiet heart As now in ours: The time fulfilled of fruits and flowers, From out Life's dying fires now start Love's less uneasy powers. All is at peace; the perfect days Move onward to a perfect close; A little while the Year delays, And takes repose, Ere to her end she sighing goes, And, clothed in tattered golds and grays, Weeps all her shadowy woes. . . . So is it with the heart awhile, The heart and soul that dreams engage, While on fruition Toil doth smile And take his wage Of Love, who cons Life's middle page; Regardless of the distant stile Where Death awaits and Age.