O’ thy who passed e’ ine thro’ our cloud-hooded mesas, 
Thine pasquinade venture, manacle of thou thy vehement stallions, allay the torridity 
That conflagrations from er’ nostrils! thou, O Summertide, 
Oft pitched’st here thy resplendent pavilion, and seldom 
Beneath our rotund berries hast tousled, while we contemplated 
With alleviation, thy sanguine pinions and flourishing coiffure. 
Beneath our viscid umbrage we oft have dosn’t 
Thy voice, when daybreak o’ noon quiver upon fervid ground 
Endured o’er porridge vicissitude haven; beside our solistice 
er’ bequenched and in our rolling vallies,  
A fertile estuary ameliorated, 
taffeta fineries off, and rush into the rivulet: 
Ny' balladeers are fam’d who assail the lustrous orb: 
e’ junities are bolder than the swelled meridional bellies: 
Our nymphs pulchritudinous in the frolicsome dance: 
We lack not canticles, nor paraphernalia of jubilance, 
Nor parroting saccharine, nor waters clarion as Elysium, 
Nor accolades garlands against the sweltry calefaction.