Of nature shrinking from thy rough embrace,
Than summer, with her rustling robe of green,
Cool blowing in my face.
The moon is up—how still the yellow beams
That slantwise lie upon the stirless air,
Sprinkled with frost, like pearl-entangled hair,
O’er beauty’s cheek that streams.
How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks.
And the wild legend from the old time wins,
Of sweet waves kissing all the drowning locks