To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;
Shaking his tangled locks all dewy bright
With spangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of summer? with the sun,
Opening the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up alone,
And morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.