August awakens drowsily. The midnight fog exhales dim, dewy drops of golden shadows. Lines of mystic beauty steal through the boulders of the mountain ruins. Written about waves, which take softly of the world; Poets rise to the quiet rim— Rosemary chambers of death are universal upon the valley. Verses of treetop sonnets fall into the bards' graves; From moon's gentle breast, musically wrapping love vapor beneath her brightness; And the lady sleeps with loving lies where rhymes gently rest.