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.
