I.

NOON.

The tanned and sultry noon climbs high Up gleaming reaches of the sky; Below the balmy belts of pines The cliff-lunged river laps and shines; Adown the aromatic dell Sifts the warm harvest's musky smell. And, oh! above one sees and hears The brawny-throated harvesters; Their red brows beaded with the heat, By twos and threes among the wheat Flash their hot sickles' slenderness In loops of shine; and sing, and sing, Like some mad troop of piping Pan, Along the hills that swoon or ring With sounds of Ariel airiness That haunted freckled Caliban:

"O ho! O ho! 'tis noon, I say; The roses blow. Away, away, above the hay The burly bees to the roses gay Hum love-tunes all the livelong day, So low! so low! The roses' Minnesingers they."