After dark vapours have oppressed our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieving from its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us – as of leaves Budding – fruit ripening in stillness – autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves – Sweet Sappho’s cheek – a sleeping infant’s breath – The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs – A woodland rivulet – a Poet’s death.