II.

The brave arbutus fair foretold the spring With gleam auroral of the coming slow Of perfect summer’s full life’s noon-day glow, With undimmed sunshine, earth illumining. Thy stars, wan hazel, break amid the blaze Of gold and scarlet wherewith burn the hills— As when the pomp of royal burial fills The clouded skies that mourn the dying days. The gold grows spent, ashen the scarlet fires, The night too near for any song of bird; ‘Mid voice of streams and rustling leaves, foot-stirred, The grieving summer’s last earth-prayer expires. Brighter thy glow as golden pomp grows sere, O pale-hued Hesper of the westering year!