 | Minions of the Moon |  |
113
THE CLOSE OF SUMMER
The wild-plum tree, whose leaves grow thin,
Has strewn the way with half its fruit:
The grasshopper's and cricket's din
Grows hushed and mute;
The veery seems a far-off flute
Where Summer listens, hand on chin,
And taps an idle foot.
Has strewn the way with half its fruit:
The grasshopper's and cricket's din
Grows hushed and mute;
The veery seems a far-off flute
Where Summer listens, hand on chin,
And taps an idle foot.
A silvery haze veils half the hills,
That crown themselves with clouds like cream;
The crow its clamor almost stills,
The hawk its scream;
The aster stars begin to gleam;
And 'mid them, by the sleepy rills,
The Summer dreams her dream.
That crown themselves with clouds like cream;
The crow its clamor almost stills,
The hawk its scream;
The aster stars begin to gleam;
And 'mid them, by the sleepy rills,
The Summer dreams her dream.
The butterfly upon its weed
Droops as if weary of its wings;
The bee, 'mid blooms that turn to seed,
Half-hearted clings,
Sick of the only song it sings,
While Summer tunes a drowsy reed
And dreams of far-off things.
Droops as if weary of its wings;
The bee, 'mid blooms that turn to seed,
Half-hearted clings,
Sick of the only song it sings,
While Summer tunes a drowsy reed
And dreams of far-off things.
Passion, of which unrest is part,
That filled with ardor all her hours,
Burns low within her quiet heart
As now in ours:
The time fulfilled of fruits and flowers,
From out Life's dying fires now start
Love's less uneasy powers.
That filled with ardor all her hours,
114
As now in ours:
The time fulfilled of fruits and flowers,
From out Life's dying fires now start
Love's less uneasy powers.
All is at peace; the perfect days
Move onward to a perfect close;
A little while the Year delays,
And takes repose,
Ere to her end she sighing goes,
And, clothed in tattered golds and grays,
Weeps all her shadowy woes. ...
Move onward to a perfect close;
A little while the Year delays,
And takes repose,
Ere to her end she sighing goes,
And, clothed in tattered golds and grays,
Weeps all her shadowy woes. ...
So is it with the heart awhile,
The heart and soul that dreams engage,
While on fruition Toil doth smile
And take his wage
Of Love, who cons Life's middle page;
Regardless of the distant stile
Where Death awaits and Age.
The heart and soul that dreams engage,
While on fruition Toil doth smile
And take his wage
Of Love, who cons Life's middle page;
Regardless of the distant stile
Where Death awaits and Age.
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