Sir Roger and I are driving out in an open carriage beyond the town, across the Elbe, up the shady road to Weisserhoisch.

The calm of coming night is falling with silky softness upon every thing.

The acacias stand on each side of the highway, with the delicate abundance of their airy flowers, faintly yet most definitely sweet on the evening air.
I look up and see the crowded blooms drooping in pensive beauty above my head.

The guelder-rose's summer snow-balls, and the mock-orange with its penetrating odor, whiten the still gardens as we pass.

The billowy meadow-grass, the tall red sorrel, the untidy, ragged robin, all the yearly-recurring May miracles! What can I say, O my friends, to set them fairly before you?
Under the trees the townsfolk are walking, chatting low and friendly.