Mine eyes are filled today with old amaze
   At mountains, and at meadows deftly strewn
   With bits of the gay jewelry of June
And of her splendid vesture; and, agaze,
I stand where Spring her bright brocade of days
   Embroidered o'er, and listen to the flow
   Of sudden runlets -- the faint blasts they blow,
Low, on their stony bugles, in still ways.
For wonders are at one, confederate yet:
   Yea, where the wearied year came to a close,
   An odor reminiscent of the rose;
And everywhere her seal has Summer set;
   And, as of old, in the horizon-sky,
   The sun can find a lovely place to die.