The Close Of Summer

The melancholy of the woods and plains When summer nears its close; the drowsy, dim, Unfathomed sadness of the mists that swim About the valleys after night-long rains; The humming garden, with it tawny chains Of gourds and blossoms, ripened to the brim; And then at eve the low moon's quiet rim, And the slow sunset, whose one cloud remains, Fill me with peace that is akin to tears; Unutterable peace, that moves as in a dream Mid fancies, sweeter than it knows or tells: That sees and hears with other eyes and ears, And walks with Memory beside a stream That flows through fields of fadeless asphodels.