Sonnet XXXVI

Summer.

Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains,

Full looks the shining Day.—Our gardens wear

The gorgeous robes of the consummate Year.

With laugh, and shout, and song, stout Maids and Swains

Heap high the fragrant hay, as thro' rough lanes

Rings the yet empty waggon.—See in air

The pendent cherries, red with tempting stains,

Gleam thro' their boughs.—Summer, thy bright career

Must slacken soon in Autumn's milder sway;

Then thy now heapt and jocund meads shall stand

Smooth,—vacant,—silent,—thro' th' exulting Land

As wave thy Rival's golden fields, and gay

Her Reapers throng. She smiles, and binds the sheaves;

Then bends her parting step o'er fall'n and rustling leaves.