God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale

The Gay Will Laugh When Thou Art Gone, The Solemn Brood Of Care Plod On, And Each One As Before Will Chase His Favourite Phantom; Yet All These Shall Leave Their Mirth And Their Employments, And Shall Come, And Make Their Bed With Thee.

Showers And Sunshine Bring, Slowly, The Deepening Verdure O'er The Earth; To Put Their Foliage Out, The Woods Are Slack, And One By One The Singing-birds Come Back.

The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying In Their Lowly Beds.

The Moon Is At Her Full, And Riding High, Floods The Calm Fields With Light. The Airs That Hover In The Summer Sky Are All Asleep To-night.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.