And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
"Silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue
Talks now unto the echo of the groves;
Only the curled stream soft chidings kept;
And little gales that from the green leaves swept
Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisperings stirr'd,
As loth to waken any singing bird,"
for it was just the season when the warblers of the forest are still, except at early morning, when they carol a brief matin hymn, and then are quiet. Yet
"The poetry of earth is never dead.
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,