The Month of Ripeness

Thou languid August noon,
When all the slopes are sunny ;
When with jocund, dreamy tune,
The bees are in the honey
When with purple flowers,
A-flaming in the sun,
The drowsy hours
Thread, one by one,
The golden pleasaunces.

Then is heart's musing time,
Then, of all the seasons,
Old Earth for inward rhyme
Is full of golden reasons ; —
Then the ripening gourd,
The sun-kissed garden wall,
The purpling hoard,
The flocks that call
Adown the distances.

Forgo the saddening tear,
Thou Month without alloy ;
To younger seasons of the year
Resign the flag of joy ;
But thou, be what thou art,
Full brooding to the brim
Of dreams apart
And purlieus dim
Of leafy silences.