Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower’s scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy,
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For O, not all that Autumn’s lap contains
Nor Summer’s ruddiest fruits
Can aught for thee atone,