The Melancholy Of The Woods And Plains When Summer Nears Its Close; The Drowsy, Dim, Unfathomed Sadness Of The Mists That Swim About The Valleys After Night-Long Rains; The Humming Garden, With It Tawny Chains Of Gourds And Blossoms, Ripened To The Brim; And Then At Eve The Low Moon'S Quiet Rim, And The Slow Sunset, Whose One Cloud Remains, Fill Me With Peace That Is Akin To Tears; Unutterable Peace, That Moves As In A Dream Mid Fancies, Sweeter Than It Knows Or Tells: That Sees And Hears With Other Eyes And Ears, And Walks With Memory Beside A Stream That Flows Through Fields Of Fadeless Asphodels.