ANDANTE

Now doth the heaviness of summer bloom Die on the air, and from the neighbour wood The brown earth good Breathes sweeter incense, born of many leaves; And every insect grieves At coming frost, chill in the holly’s gloom; Flutters in paler light, then wraps her round In her torn summer robe, and dies forlorn Upon the dew-sprent ground. The blue mist in the valley rises slow; Rises till she attain the topmost tree Of all that be Upon the slopes of mead and stubble-field; Then when the sun has wheeled His round, now short and drooping very low, Lies still and fills the vale from side to side, And scents it with all sweets the heavens know In any countryside. 1915.