August

By H. P. LOVECRAFT

Come, mellow month, whose full-blown charms
 O'er mead and wood diffuse their grace;
Whose ardour all the valley warms,
 And glads the grateful mountain's face.

The waving corn in yonder field,
 Delighted, owns thy genial ray;
Whilst clover'd plains adoring yield
 The frankincense of new-mown hay.

The sky a lovelier blue puts on;
 The sun thro' Virgo proudly rides;
The lark sings sweeter at the dawn;
 The stream with purer, crystal glides.

The grove with tropic plenty flow'rs,
 And Summer reigns in regal state;
Precious the boon of earlier hours,
 Yet now doth each one culminate.

To youthful bards the Spring I give;
 To sighing swains the June devine;
But I midst riper joys would live,
 And choose the August days as mine!