"Grain is all garnered—the Summer is over and done;
Bleak to the eastward the icy battalions gleam,
Summer is over—and I must make haste to be gone!"
"Soon—ah, too soon!" says the Soul, with a pitiful gaze,
"Soon!—for I rose like a star, and for aye would have shone!
See the pale shuddering dawn, that must wither my rays,
Leaps from the mountains—and I must make haste to be gone!"
AT EVENTIDE
At morn I saw the level plain