XXXV

I know, O Lord, the summer fields are green,
And the rich splendor of the summer air
Is full of perfume; for the breezes bear,
Sometimes, a hint of wonders all unseen
In this hot city. Far away between
The marshalled walls, beyond the oily glare
Of yon slow stream, my fancy is aware
Of all the pomps that deck the season's queen.
And though for these in vain my senses pine,
Loading with sighs my dull and weary hours--
With sighs that sap my manhood of its powers--
Yet most I languish for that vale divine
Where oft I see thee, Love, in dreams of mine,
A mortal Flora, walking through the flowers.