I Hear The Orioles Always-Grieving Voice

I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice,

And the rich summer's welcome loss I

In the sickle's serpentine

Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear.

And the short skirts of the slim

Fly in the wind like holiday pennants,

The clash of joyful cymbals, and

From under dusty lashes, the long glance.

I don't expect love's tender flatteries,

In premonition of some dark event,

But come, come and see this

Where together we were blessed and innocent.