<Dust on thy mantle! Dust, bright summer, on thy livery of green!
A tarnish, as of rust,
dims thy late-brillant sheen:
And thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower-
change cometh over them with every hour.
Thee hath the August sun
Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,
Scarce whispering in their pace,
The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.>