The blent delight of summer! Far and faint
The hills, hard by the hayfield's fragrancy,
And yonder bosky thicket whence to me
Floated last night the thrush's mellow plaint,
Fit sound to woo the moon. No cloud-flecks taint
The crystal sky that is so calm to see;
The heyday of the birds is come, the glee
Of brooks is heard; each tree stands like a saint
In chastened meditation. When the bard
Birth-claimed of seven cities oped his eyes
(Not blind as yet) upon a world more young,
Naught was more lovely. Here in fairest guise
Beauty still waits upon the golden tongue
To show her forth, for man's most fond regard.