And countless little valleys now light fills.
Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;
Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cart
Nor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,
Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.
O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soul
Pour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the roll
Of longing, futile thought, repining—pain—
That like thy hills I, too, may know again—
Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;