OPEN the masque with music,'

Summer said,

" My sceptre is wild iris,

June roses crown my head ;

I wend through the Early Purples

And Ragged Robin red :

And a dim white moth-smoke flutters

At evening where 1tread."

Lissom the day with dancing

When Summer throws

Larksong like spears of silver,

Or cushat's green repose,

Or cuckoo's bell-like question,

Or the storm of song that goes

Up to the blue-hush zenith

From myriad-thronged hedgerows.