I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, br And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear br In the sickle's serpentine hiss br Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear. br And the short skirts of the slim reapers br Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, br The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping br From under dusty lashes, the long glance. br br I don't expect love's tender flatteries, br In premonition of some dark event, br But come, come and see this paradise br Where together we were blessed and innocent.