The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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MIDSUMMER
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
MIDSUMMER
A SAN FRANCISCO MADRIGAL
“The air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our several senses.”
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our several senses.”
Macbeth.
Now Cancer holds the fiery sun,
And Sirius flames in yonder skies,
Midsummer's languid reign's begun—
Arise, my lady sweet, arise;
Come forth ere evening's shadows fall—
But, dearest, don't forget thy shawl.
And Sirius flames in yonder skies,
Midsummer's languid reign's begun—
Arise, my lady sweet, arise;
Come forth ere evening's shadows fall—
But, dearest, don't forget thy shawl.
338
For why, methinks these zephyrs bland
Are brisk and jocund in their play.
These tears, thou may'st not understand,
Spring but from joy at such a day;
And, dearest, what thou deem'st a frown
Is but to keep my beaver down.
Are brisk and jocund in their play.
These tears, thou may'st not understand,
Spring but from joy at such a day;
And, dearest, what thou deem'st a frown
Is but to keep my beaver down.
Now generous Nature kindly sifts
Her blessings free from liberal hand:
How varied are her graceful gifts;
How soft—(yes, dearest, that was sand,
A trifle—and by Nature thrown
O'er this fresh signature—her own!)
Her blessings free from liberal hand:
How varied are her graceful gifts;
How soft—(yes, dearest, that was sand,
A trifle—and by Nature thrown
O'er this fresh signature—her own!)
Here let us sit and watch, till morn,
The fleecy fog that creeps afar,
And, like a poultice, soothes the torn
And wind-bruised face of cliff and scar;
Nor fear no chill from damp nor dew,
Nor—(really! bless my soul—a-tschu!)
The fleecy fog that creeps afar,
And, like a poultice, soothes the torn
And wind-bruised face of cliff and scar;
Nor fear no chill from damp nor dew,
Nor—(really! bless my soul—a-tschu!)
A sneeze—'t is nothing—what of that?
Or if I choose, in youthful guise,
To chase this lightly flying hat,
Instead of painted butterflies—
'T is but the latitude, you know,
The season gives—well, well, we'll go.
Or if I choose, in youthful guise,
To chase this lightly flying hat,
Instead of painted butterflies—
'T is but the latitude, you know,
The season gives—well, well, we'll go.
And when once more within our cot,
Where sweetly streams the fragrant tea,
And buttered muffins crisp and hot,
Their welcome spread for you and me;
Then, love, by fires that glitter bright,
We'll sing Midsummer's soft delight.
Where sweetly streams the fragrant tea,
And buttered muffins crisp and hot,
Their welcome spread for you and me;
Then, love, by fires that glitter bright,
We'll sing Midsummer's soft delight.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |