The Wild-Plum Tree, Whose Leaves Grow Thin, Has Strewn The Way With Half Its Fruit: The Grasshopper'S And Cricket'S Din Grows Hushed And Mute; The Veery Seems A Far-Off Flute Where Summer Listens, Hand On Chin, And Taps An Idle Foot. A Silvery Haze Veils Half The Hills, That Crown Themselves With Clouds Like Cream; The Crow Its Clamor Almost Stills, The Hawk Its Scream; The Aster Stars Begin To Gleam; And 'Mid Them, By The Sleepy Rills, The Summer Dreams Her Dream. The Butterfly Upon Its Weed Droops As If Weary Of Its Wings; The Bee, 'Mid Blooms That Turn To Seed, Half-Hearted Clings, Sick Of The Only Song It Sings, While Summer Tunes A Drowsy Reed And Dreams Of Far-Off Things. Passion, Of Which Unrest Is Part, That Filled With Ardor All Her Hours, Burns Low Within Her Quiet Heart As Now In Ours: The Time Fulfilled Of Fruits And Flowers, From Out Life'S Dying Fires Now Start Love'S Less Uneasy Powers. All Is At Peace; The Perfect Days Move Onward To A Perfect Close; A Little While The Year Delays, And Takes Repose, Ere To Her End She Sighing Goes, And, Clothed In Tattered Golds And Grays, Weeps All Her Shadowy Woes. . . . So Is It With The Heart Awhile, The Heart And Soul That Dreams Engage, While On Fruition Toil Doth Smile And Take His Wage Of Love, Who Cons Life'S Middle Page; Regardless Of The Distant Stile Where Death Awaits And Age.