She wakened in the early morn of June,
To a soft tune
The scythe song, made by mowers, when they pass
Through the green grass
What time the dewdrops glisten on the lawn,
In the grey dawn
"This is the sound," she thought, "of summer days,
Heat and soft haze,
Of nightingales, and dreaming drowsy nights,
And dim delights,
Summer! So much to take, so much to give,
'Tis sweet, sweet to live."