I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, 
And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear 
In the sickle's serpentine hiss 
Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear. 
And the short skirts of the slim reapers 
Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, 
The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping 
From under dusty lashes, the long glance. 

I don't expect love's tender flatteries, 
In premonition of some dark event, 
But come, come and see this paradise 
Where together we were blessed and innocent.