All the sweet realm of Nature be:
But the South-loving birds have fled,
By their mysterious instinct led;
The butterflies their nests have spun,
And donned their silken shrouds each one;
The bees have hived them fast, while we
Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!
Make not such haste to fly away!”
And all, with pitying looks, reply:
“Summer is fled; we may not stay.