August (Smith)

In silence now the purpling summer passes, The swallows fly; The failing river scantly glasses, Where amber twilights wane, Our dreaming kiss above the flow'rs that die...

Will love at last remain? Ever I pray to find (Though all the heav'ns be blind!) The gold of love and summer in thy hair; And breathe between thy shadowy breasts again, In eves of autumn wind, All flowers that failed upon a windless air.