513 Like Flowers, that heard the news of Dews, But never deemed the dripping prize Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer's name Some rumor of Delirium, No Summer—could—for Them— Or Arctic Creatures, dimly stirred— By Tropic Hint—some Travelled Bird Imported to the Wood— Or Wind's bright signal to the Ear— Making that homely, and severe, Contented, known, before— The Heaven—unexpected come, To Lives that thought the Worshipping A too presumptuous Psalm—