I.
It is the Crown of Summer—August tide !1
Nor reels the Earth with her tiara’s weight,2
But with a stately, calm, befitting gait—3
Not wholly unto gladness unallied,4
That matron-mirth which wears a mask of pride—5
Lifts her broad brow with conscious wealth elate,6
As if to ask what worthy planet-mate7
Gemmed the clear sky, and circled by her side,8
Still seems She ever lone : the moon—pale face !9
She makes but servitor—for wages this,10
To hold her anchored in the sea of space :11
And in her pride Earth takes no meaner kiss12
Than from the Orb of Day, whose warm beams chase13
The winter’s sorrow with dear summen’s bliss.14