WILCOX. THE month is now far spent; and the meridian sun, To find a single flower, but all in vain ; Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps, The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropp'd From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. COWPER. I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race, They pick their fuel out of every hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd The spark of life. WORDSWORTH. NUTTING. It seems a day, (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die; I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A temper, known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope.— |