For thee, sweet month; the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year; For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
All flowers will droop in the absence of the sun that waked their sweets.
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