Summer

How sweet, when weary, dropping on a bank,
— — Turning a look around on things that be!
E'ndash feather-headed grasses, spindling rank,
— — A-trembling to the breeze one loves to see;
— — And yellow buttercup, where many a bee
Comes buzzing to its head and bows it down;
— — And the great dragonfly with gauzy wings,
In gilded coat of purple, green, or brown,
— — That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings,
— — Fond of the sunny day — and other things
Past counting, please me while thus here I lie.
— — But still reflective pains are not forgot:
Summer sometime shall bless this spot, when I,
— — Hapt in the cold dark grave, can heed it not.
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