Midsummer Passes

With faltering step the sweet Midsummer paused
Upon the last stair of the worn July.
Behind her blushed the roses and before
The scarlet poppies shimmered in the corn.
From far-off woods a heated breath came past,
Blown from dark cedars and tall groves of pine,
Yet all its sweetness might not serve to soothe
The bitterness of fair Midsummer's pain,
Who felt her sceptre slipping from her grasp
And saw one coming with his heated brows
Girt round with wheatstraws, bold young August brown.