 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
158
[The Summer hears you where she swings]
The Summer hears you where she swings
Among her poppy-pods and dreams,
While overhead the redbird sings,
The blue-jay screams.
She hears you by the garden fence,
A twilight sound, that takes the sense
With drowsy indolence.
Among her poppy-pods and dreams,
While overhead the redbird sings,
The blue-jay screams.
She hears you by the garden fence,
A twilight sound, that takes the sense
With drowsy indolence.
Deep in the meditating wood
Where August sits with sultry eyes,
Thinking of leaves and solitude,
And lazy skies,
One listens, searching grass and ground
For your cool crystal of green sound,
That glints around and round.
Where August sits with sultry eyes,
Thinking of leaves and solitude,
And lazy skies,
One listens, searching grass and ground
For your cool crystal of green sound,
That glints around and round.
And on the hills, when sunset glows,
Red as the rose that tints a shell
Of azure pearl, your music grows
A fairy spell;
And at its sound Day lays her down
To rest, in gold and russet gown,
Crowned with her starry crown.
Red as the rose that tints a shell
Of azure pearl, your music grows
A fairy spell;
And at its sound Day lays her down
To rest, in gold and russet gown,
Crowned with her starry crown.
159
And lying there, as in a dream,
Hearing your bell-note, at a glance
She seems to see, where moonbeams gleam,
The elfins dance;
And, looking nearer, lo, she sees
Your airy wings pulse in the breeze,
Among the weeds and trees.
Hearing your bell-note, at a glance
She seems to see, where moonbeams gleam,
The elfins dance;
And, looking nearer, lo, she sees
Your airy wings pulse in the breeze,
Among the weeds and trees.
And on a fingertip of dew
She lifts you, singing, to the moon;
And ghosts of wonders, Boyhood knew,
To your frail tune,
Rise from their graves, like mists, and stand
Around you, hand in tiny hand,
Beckoning to Elfinland.
She lifts you, singing, to the moon;
And ghosts of wonders, Boyhood knew,
To your frail tune,
Rise from their graves, like mists, and stand
Around you, hand in tiny hand,
Beckoning to Elfinland.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |