August
Ripe fruits and filberts! Over all the land
The hot air travels, bearing music bland
From shining scythe and sickle. Harvest lays
Rise where the white corn, on a hundred hills,
In the broad valleys, by the sparkling rills,
Bends to the joyous reaper; whilst a haze
Of insect incense fills the world with praise.
Wheat-waving August, in thy straw-bright hair
And leafy zone, with juicy fruitage bound,
What loveliness can with thyself compare?
Where dwells a queen so greatly, grandly crown'd?
Where'er thou tread'st, the ripe grapes cluster round.
To Him soars up one universal strain,
Who gives the early and the latter rain.
