Chapter III

If other flowers decorate our home,
And multiply the splendour of this place,
The little lake shines ever from the grass
With the large eyes of its ever moving face.

Ah, say, from what deep distances unknown
So many gleaming birds have come
With wings sun-sown?

July has driven April from the close
And bluish tints have given place to red,
The skies are torpid and the wind has fled;
Joyously brilliant insects fill the air
That harks,
And summer wanders by, robed with diamonds
And sparks.