After dark vapours have oppressed our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away

From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieving from its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,

The eyelids with the passing coolness play,
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.
And calmest thoughts come round us – as of leaves

Budding – fruit ripening in stillness – autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves –
Sweet Sappho's cheek – a sleeping infant's breath –

The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs –
A woodland rivulet – a Poet's death.