fading 



From Spring's first kiss to Autumn's last caress 

 Gayly its moorlands bloom, from strand to strand ; 

 And many a favored nook, by west winds fanned, 

 Holds flowers unmatched for tint and loveliness. 

 But most I mind me of a lonesome shore, 

 To countless gulls a harbor and freehold, 

 Where, like some shipwrecked buccaneer of old, 

 Cast on the sands, condemned to roam no more, 

 In spiny armature, secure and bold, 

 The Cactus lies at length and guards its gold. 

 JULY. 



