Summer Moods

I Love at eventide to walk alone, Down narrow glens, o’erhung with dewy thorn, Where from the long grass underneath, the snail, Jet black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. I love to muse o’er meadows newly mown, Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air; Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone, In vain, for flowers that bloomed but newly there; While in the juicy corn the hidden quail Cries, “Wet my foot;” and, hid as thoughts unborn, The fairy-like and seldom-seen land-rail Utters “Craik, craik,” like voices underground, Right glad to meet the evening’s dewy veil, And see the light fade into gloom around.