Before the breath of storm,
While yet the long, bright afternoons are warm,
Under this stainless arch of azure sky
The air is filled with gathering wings for flight;
Yet with the shrill mirth and the loud delight
Comes the foreboding sorrow of this cry —
" Till the storm scatter and the gloom dispel,
Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell! "

Why will ye go so soon,
In these soft hours, this sweeter month than June?
The liquid air floats over field and tree
A veil of dreams; — where do ye find the sting?
A gold enchantment sleeps upon the sea
And purple hills; — why have ye taken wing?
But faint, far-heard, the answers fall and swell —
" Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell! "
This windy, bright September afternoon
My heart is wide awake, yet full of dreams.
The air, alive with hushed confusion, teems
With scent of grain-fields, and a mystic rune,
Foreboding of the fall of Summer soon,
Keeps swelling and subsiding; till there seems
O'er all the world of valleys, hills, and streams,
Only the wind's inexplicable tune.

My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake.
I lie and watch the topmost tossing boughs
Of tall elms, pale against the vaulted blue;
But even now some yellowing branches shake,
Some hue of death the living green endows: —
If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too.