Adonais

lt Thammuz camp npxt oenina, Whöflfl annual wound in Lebanon all r red Tho Syrian tl anísela to lament liis fat-i In amorous ditties all a Buraraer'B day." - Millón, Shall we meet no more. my love; tbr binding of the sheaves. In the happy harvest field, as tho sim sinïts lov, When the orchard paths art; dim with the drift of fallen leaves, As the reapei'H sing together in the niellow misty evea ? - Oh, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Love met us in the orchard ere the corn had gathsred plume - Oh, happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! Sweet as summer days that die when the inonths are in their blooin, When the peaks are ripewith snnset.like the taasels of the broom Ia the happy harvest fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as Bunimer days tbat die. ïeftflsg sweetereach to each - Oh, happy are the apples whon the .south winds blow ! All the heart was f uil of feeling; Love had ripened i uto speech, Like the sap that turas to nectar in thevolvet of the peach, In the happy harvest fields as the sun slnks low. Sweet añ summer days that die at tho ripening oí the corn - Oh, happy aro the apples when the south winda blow ! Sweet as lover's fiokle oaths swom to faithless maids foreswom, When the ruaty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking hom Over happy harvest fields as the sun sinks low. Love left us at the dying of Üie mellow atiturun eves - Oh, happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part at the binding of the sheaves In the happy harvest fields as the sun sinks low. Then the reapers gathered home from the gray and misty meres - L Oh, happy are the apples when the soutU winds hlow !- Ihen the reapers gather home, and they bear upon thcirspears Love whose face is like the ruoon's fallen palé among the spheres, With the daylight's blightupon it as thesun siuks low. Faiut as tar-off hugles blowing soft and low the reapers sung - Oh, happy are the apples when the south winds blow I 3weet as summer in the blood when the heart is ripe and young. Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among In the happy harvest fields as the sun sinks low.