The honey-dropping moon,

On a night in June,

Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.

Age, the wither’d clinger,

On us mutely gazes,

And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood’s daisies.

See (and scorn all duller

Taste) how heav’n loves color;

How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;

What sweet thoughts she thinks