AUGUST, thou monarch of the mellow noon, That with thy sceptre smit'st the teeming plain And gladd'nest all the world with golden grain, How oft have I, beneath thy harvest moon, Harkened the cushat's soft insistent croon, As to the night she told her soul in pain, Or heard the corn-crake to his mate complain, When all things slept, beneath the sun aswoon! The world with sun and sheen is overfed And the faint heart, its need once done away, Soon waxes weary of the summer-day And the sun blazing in the blue o'erhead, "Would God that it were night!" is apt to say And "Would the summer-heats were oversped!"
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