A sunset memory on his breast,
Pouring his vesper hymns and prayers
To the red shrine of the West.”
July.
The full tide of song is on the ebb, but you still hear in the shadowy woods the silvery notes of—
“The wise Thrush, who sings his song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
That first fine careless rapture.”
—Browning.
August.