I.

Across these meadows, o’er the hills, Beside our sleeping waters, hurrying rills, Through many a woodland dark, and many a bright arcade, Where out and in the shifting sunbeams braid An Indian mat of checquered light and shade,— The sister seasons in their maze, Since last we wakened here From hot siesta the still drowsy year, Have led the fourfold dance along our quiet ways,— Autumn apparelled sadly gay, Winter’s white furs and shortened day, Spring’s loitering footstep, quickened at the last, And half the affluent summer went and came, As for uncounted years the same— Ah me! another unreturning spring hath passed.