The rapturous spirit that did cheer the earth
With spring-time revelry, hath passed away,
And Nature's harp, which knew the touch of Mirth,
Who liketh well the young song-loving May,
Hath found a grave musician, that doth play
With languid hand, half-mournfully and slow,
The music of the Summer's waning day.
Along the vales, wherein no waters flow,
The soft refrain—disconsolate and low,
Goes wandering, idly, like some soul astray,
That sighs for rest, and wists not where to go.

The weary spirit of the Summer turns
To seek the dim land of forgetfulness,
Even as the heart, when sorrow's fever burns,
Dreams of the clay's cool shelter from distress.