Bronzing each object where it lies.
Outlines are melted in the gauze
That Nature vails; the fitful breeze
From the thick pine low murmuring draws,
Then dies in flutterings midst the trees.
The bee is slumbering in the thistle,
And, now and then, a broken whistle,
A tread—a hum—a tap—is heard
Through the dry leaves, in grass and bush,
As insect, animal, and bird