Where fountains sprinkle and plash and tinkle—
Ay me! that my dream can ne'er come to pass!
"Fourteen hours of the sun!" says the "Jordan Recorder"—
Each day it grows hotter in London town!
The plane-trees are withered and burnt and brown;
Ere Lammas has come the leaves are down!
The months have been mixed—they're out of order;
We'd the weather of June six weeks too soon;
And now we swelter and gasp for shelter—
We're grilled alive from toe to crown!