

Q vay 
Swit summer into the autumn flow’d, 1 
And frost in the mist of the i 
Though the noon-day sun loo 
Mocking the spoil of the secret 


And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 


eaf after leaf, day by day, 
Were massed into the common clay. || 



<6 troops 
sazhietline 
Whistlins |} 
osts on the dry 
se made the b 


