XLV
As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away,—Too imperceptible, at last,To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature, spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone,—A courteous, yet harrowing grace,As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing,Or service of a keel,Our summer made her light escapeInto the beautiful.