In the mute August afternoon, they trembled to some undertune of music in the silver air.
That August time, it was a delight to watch the red moons wane to white.
And a bird overhead sang follow, and a bird to the right sang here. And the arch of the leaves was hollow, and the meaning of May was clear.
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite.
