 | Louise de la Valliaere and other poems |  |
13
IN SUMMER.
O Summer winds are soft and sweet,
And fair are Summer skies;
The flowers are slumberous with the heat;
But the long grass about my feet
All cool and odorous lies.
The sun is kingly down the west,
In pomp this eve rides he,
And, tipped with gold, each misty crest
Of grey and dun,—the clouds at rest
Float o'er him solemnly.
While their far sombre ranges through
Shine out long rifts, divinely blue.
And fair are Summer skies;
The flowers are slumberous with the heat;
But the long grass about my feet
All cool and odorous lies.
The sun is kingly down the west,
In pomp this eve rides he,
And, tipped with gold, each misty crest
Of grey and dun,—the clouds at rest
Float o'er him solemnly.
While their far sombre ranges through
Shine out long rifts, divinely blue.
Adown the scented garden ways
My lady comes to me,
Amid the lilies pale of grace—
Herself the fairest in the face
Of all that company.
No worldly deckings doth she wear,
A lily flower is she;
Her pure, pale face is very fair;
But the gold crowning of her hair
Is all her royalty.
She is so sweet,—one passionate rose
Leans out to touch her as she goes.
My lady comes to me,
Amid the lilies pale of grace—
Herself the fairest in the face
Of all that company.
14
A lily flower is she;
Her pure, pale face is very fair;
But the gold crowning of her hair
Is all her royalty.
She is so sweet,—one passionate rose
Leans out to touch her as she goes.
The birds are at their evensong,
Their joy is loud and clear;
And 'mid the chanting of the throng
The thrush's anthem, wild and long,
She stands awhile to hear.
Ah, Sweet! The gold will fade to grey
Down yon far western gates,
The thrush's song will die away;
But one whose love will last alway
For thy sweet coming waits.
She comes,—and, with no other sign,
Puts both her little hands in mine.
Their joy is loud and clear;
And 'mid the chanting of the throng
The thrush's anthem, wild and long,
She stands awhile to hear.
Ah, Sweet! The gold will fade to grey
Down yon far western gates,
The thrush's song will die away;
But one whose love will last alway
For thy sweet coming waits.
She comes,—and, with no other sign,
Puts both her little hands in mine.
| Louise de la Valliaere and other poems | |