August, the month of virgins, is at hand.
Shrill-voiced, the locust pipes a-field;
With flash of burnished shield
Hovers the dragon-fly athwart the stream;
Like sea-bird slumbering in mid-day dream
Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land.
August, the month of virgins, is at hand.
Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,—
Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide,
Fair sky, nor aught beside;
Gazing afar, half troubled, half content,
Awaits with folded hands a message sent
Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,—
Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy.