A-sailing in cloud-pavilions of cavern’d snow.
O June, sweet Philomel sang thy cradle-lay;
In rosy revel thy spirit shall pass away.
JULY
ED. Heavy is the green of the fields, heavy the trees
With foliage hang, drowsy the hum of bees
In the thundrous air: the crowded scents lie low:
Thro’ tangle of weeds the river runneth slow.
AUGUST