Chapter I

In the summer of the summer, when the hazy air is sweet
With the breath of crimson clover, and the day’s a-shine with heat,
When the sky is blue and burning and the clouds a downy mass,
When the breeze is idly dawdling, there is music in the grass—
Just a thistly, whistly sound
In the tangles near the ground;
And the flitting fairies often stop to listen as they pass.
Just a lisping, whisp’ring tune,
Like a bumblebee’s bassoon,
In a far-away fantasia, is the music in the grass.