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The groves, but now so still, grow vocal, and pour forth
From thousand tuneful throats such melodies
As might e'en Dulness, drowsy maid, herself
Awake to ecstasy. June's unmown fields
Stand tremulous, all wet with silvery dew,
Night's grateful benison. The clouds that hung
Like parting curtains when the day awoke,
Transfigured, glow as dipped in Tyrian dyes
Of hue celestial—ruby, jasper, gold.
The chariot of the King of Day they seem,
In which, with pomp ascending o'er the heights,
He climbs the noonward path. The wreathing mists
That hide, and yet reveal, the stream that winds
Along the quiet valley, slowly lift,
Like beauty's veil, and show the grace beneath.
The voice of flocks and herds that hasten forth
Eager to taste the pasture blend confused,
Yet please the listening ear. The flowery train,
With which bright Summer loves at early dawn
Her retinue to fill, spread o'er the fields,