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