Summer Moods

I love at even-tide to walk alone,
Down narrow lanes o'erhung with dewy thorn,
Where from the long grass underneath, the snail
Jet black creeps out and sprouts his timid horn.
I love to muse o'er meadows newly mown,
Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air;
Where bees search round with sad and weary drone,
In vain for flowers that bloomed but newly there;
While in the juicy corn, the hidden quail
Cries "wet my foot!" and hid as thoughts unborn,
The fairy-like and seldom seen land-rail
Utters "craik, craik," like voices underground:
Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil,
And see the light fade into glooms around.