CHAUCER

How silver falls the night!

The hills lie down like sheep; the young frog flutes;

The yellow-ammer, from his coppice, pipes

Drowsy rehearsals of his matin-song;

The latest swallow dips behind the stack.

What beauty dreams in silence! The white stars,

Like folded daisies in a summer field,

Sleep in their dew, and by yon primrose gap

In darkness’ hedge, St. Ruth hath dropped her sickle.