The February sunshine steeps your boughs, and tints the buds, and swells the leaves within.
The quiet August noon has come. A slumberous silence fills the sky. The winds are still, the trees are dumb. In glassy sleep, the waters lie.
The linden, in the fervors of July, hums with a louder concert.
Do not the bright June roses blow to meet thy kiss at morning hours?
The August cloud melts into streams of rain.
