A low, contented murmur.
The long grass flowed adown the hill,
A hum rose from a hidden rill,
But thy glad heart, that knew no ill
But too much love, lay dead and still—
The only thing that sent a chill
Into the heart of summer.
Thou didst not seek the poet’s wreath
But too soon didst win it;
Without ’twas green, but underneath