SPRING scarce had greener fields to show than these 
Of mid September; through the still warm noon 
The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune 
Than ever in the summer; from the trees 
Dusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies, 
No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoon 
In pallid skies more suddenly, and the moon 
Finds motionless white mists out on the leas. 
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god's lair 
A month hence, gazing on the last bright field, 
To sink o'er-drowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew 
Around my head and feet silently there, 
Till Spring's glad choir adown the valley pealed, 
And violets trembled in the morning dew.