Now genial August, July's swarthy child,
Comes with the bloom of heather on her cheek,
Rain, cloud, and sun play games of hide-and-seek:
Old Skiddaw frowns, anon is reconciled.
For harvest-home the last hay-cart is piled,
The warm-breathed barns with richest odors reek,
Fresh emerald hues the flowerless meadows streak,
And second spring upon the vale has smiled.
Sweet second spring! though all the birds are still,
Yet have we tender life and flutterings,
And innocent new eyes on every spray,
With downy breasts that think we mean no ill;
And while such glimpse of Eden August brings,
We love her better than the tuneful May.