ON August evenings mists arise; They ease the edge of everything; They shade the crimson in the skies, And hush the cornfields; and they bring A mist about my eyes. Feebly the weed-heap fumes away; Sweet is the smell, but strange and strong. 'Tis night; an hour ago 'twas day; Autumn is in a month; how long Seems it, since it was May? |