When summer gathers up her robes of glory, and like a dream of beauty glides away. — Sarah Helen Whitman August Copy Share Image
The shy little Mayflower weaves her nest, But the south wind sighs o'er the fragrant loam, And betrays the path to her… — Sarah Helen Whitman Betray Copy Share Image
Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow… — Sarah Helen Whitman Bounds Copy Share Image
