For, never before
Has he gambolled o'er
The summer-dressed, flowery earth;
And he skips in play,
As he fain would say
"'Tis a season of feast and mirth."
And we have to-day
Been rambling away
To gather the flowers most fair,
Which we sat beneath
An old oak to wreath
While fanned by the balmy air.
Now the sun goes down
Like a golden crown
That's sliding behind a hill;
So we dance the while
To his farewell smile;
And well dance as the dews distil.
Then, we'll dance to-night
While the fire-fly's light
Is sparkling among the grass;
And we'll step our tune
To the silver moon,
As over the green we pass.
O, Summer is sweet!
But her joys are fleet;
We catch them but on the wing:
Yet never the less
Would our hearts confess
The blessings she comes to bring.
=The Morning-Glory=
Come here and sit thee down by me!
I've read a tale, I'll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
Though simple is the story.
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour--
An airy Morning-Glory.
'Tis common parlance names it thus;
But 'twas a gay convolvulus:
Yet we'll not stop to here discuss
Its species or its genus.
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