Like a late watcher, tired and sleep-inclined,
Yet patient at her post and smiling still,
The year keeps vigil. Look you where you will,
In all her wide domain you shall not find
Her hand has lost its cunning: still the wind
Plays its soft descants; still each rippling rill
Goes singing seaward; while, on every hill,
The sun pours benediction bland and kind
As blest the summer; still the crickets hide
In the warm grass, — and ever and anon,
A bee reels by, store-laden from the lawn
Where bloom late flowers, alert and openeyed:
" How fair, " they sigh with me, " and oh, how dear,
This lingering sweetness of the dying year! "