 | Historical Odes and Other Poems |  |
106
To Summer.
Thou who dost set the prop to crooked arms
Of apple-trees that labour with their store;
Who givest sunshine to the nestling farms
Along the valley, that their roofs may pore
More placidly upon the open sky;
Thou who dost bid the poplars swing so high
Through thy sweet breath, and pourest rustling waves
Of air along the forest-fledged hill;
Who by the shore dost froth the ocean caves
With green translucent billows, coming still
Till the clear reefs and hollows sob and thrill;
Imperial summer, thou art nigh;
Giver of sweetness, thou art come;
Magician of the soul's melodious gloom,
Whisperer of heaven, great queen of poesy.
Of apple-trees that labour with their store;
Who givest sunshine to the nestling farms
Along the valley, that their roofs may pore
More placidly upon the open sky;
Thou who dost bid the poplars swing so high
Through thy sweet breath, and pourest rustling waves
Of air along the forest-fledged hill;
Who by the shore dost froth the ocean caves
With green translucent billows, coming still
Till the clear reefs and hollows sob and thrill;
Imperial summer, thou art nigh;
Giver of sweetness, thou art come;
Magician of the soul's melodious gloom,
Whisperer of heaven, great queen of poesy.
I see thee lead the weeping morning up,
That thy bright sun may kiss away her tears;
I see thee drench thy moon in dewy cup,
Which from the roses Hebe evening bears;
High in the heaven is set thy smouldering tower
Of cloudy watch for many a noontide hour;
Whence thou descendest on the misty vale
Far off, and in green hollows all thine own
Leanest thy brow, for loving languor pale,
While some sweet lay of love is let alone,
Or some sweet whisper dies away unknown:
Then with the sunset thou dost rise,
And mournfully dost mark
Thy softening clouds subdued into the dark,
The shutting of thy flowers, and thy bereaved skies.
That thy bright sun may kiss away her tears;
I see thee drench thy moon in dewy cup,
Which from the roses Hebe evening bears;
107
Of cloudy watch for many a noontide hour;
Whence thou descendest on the misty vale
Far off, and in green hollows all thine own
Leanest thy brow, for loving languor pale,
While some sweet lay of love is let alone,
Or some sweet whisper dies away unknown:
Then with the sunset thou dost rise,
And mournfully dost mark
Thy softening clouds subdued into the dark,
The shutting of thy flowers, and thy bereaved skies.
Yet thou must fade, sweet nurse of budded boughs;
Thy beauty hath the tenderness of death;
Thy fickle sun is riding from thine house;
Thy perfect fulness waits for withering breath:
Already, see, the broad-leaved sycamore
Drops one by one his honours to the floor:
For his wide mouths thou canst no longer find,
Poor mother that thou art, the needful food;
The air doth less abound with nectar kind;
And soon his brethren of the prosperous wood
Shall paler grow; thou shalt be sallow-hued,
Mother, too soon; dies too
The aspiration thou hast sent,
The thrilling joy, the sweet content
That live with trees so green and heavens so blue.
Thy beauty hath the tenderness of death;
Thy fickle sun is riding from thine house;
Thy perfect fulness waits for withering breath:
Already, see, the broad-leaved sycamore
Drops one by one his honours to the floor:
For his wide mouths thou canst no longer find,
Poor mother that thou art, the needful food;
The air doth less abound with nectar kind;
And soon his brethren of the prosperous wood
Shall paler grow; thou shalt be sallow-hued,
Mother, too soon; dies too
The aspiration thou hast sent,
The thrilling joy, the sweet content
That live with trees so green and heavens so blue.
| Historical Odes and Other Poems | |