‘Summer has done her work; she, lingering, sees Her shady places glare: yet cooler grow The breezes as they stir the sunny trees Whose shaking twigs their ruby berries sow. Ripe is the fairy-grass, we breathe its seeds, But, hanging o’er the rocks that belt the shore, Safe from the sea, above its bustling roar, Here ripen, still, the blossom-swinging weeds.