University of Virginia Library

SUMMER.

But for the lengthening of the days,
And darkening of the close-leaved sprays,
The grass we see already mown,
The earing corn that's taller grown,
And other silent signs He made
Whom all creation hath obeyed,
We in our blindness could not find
Where blue-eyed Spring was left behind—
When Summer, with red roses crown'd,
Alighted on the sunny ground.
Nor can these sisters ever meet,
Although the print of Spring's fresh feet
Is everywhere by Summer seen
Among the flowers and grasses green;
Because upon the very day
That Summer comes Spring goes away.
And when Spring's gone up come the mowers
To cut down all the grass and flowers
Which she had grown in the wide closes;
And sun-tanned Summer, wreathed with roses,
Doth not a sign of grief display,
But makes the herbage into hay;
For well she knows another race
Of flowers will spring up in their place,
And such as Spring hath never known,
But are for Summer only grown.
No greater pleasure Summer yields
Than pleasant walks across the fields,
O'er footpaths that go in and out,
Broidered with flowers all round about.
For there the young birds we espy
That are just fledged enough to fly,
Though never far without a rest,
Nor yet a long way from the nest;
The old birds near at hand you'll see,
Watching their feathered family.
Where the trees throw a shadow cool
Half way across the flower-edged pool,
We see the patient cattle stand,
Glad to escape the buzzing band
That hover in the sunshine bright,
And on the grazing herd alight.
In that same pool another scene
Will fleck with light those shadows green,
When the sheep-washers gather there;
And many a bleating sound you'll hear
As in the water they are roll'd,
Then dripping, left to find the fold.
The little lambs all standing nigh,
Look on with a strange wondering eye,
And say, perhaps, to one another,
“Why, they've half drown'd my poor old mother!”
What a sweet smell floats every way
Upon the air, of new-mown hay;
The high-piled waggons pass the lane,
Are emptied and sent back again.
The horses of their own accord
Go plashing through the shallow ford;
And the dear children placed inside,
Delighted, through the water ride.
And in the field they run and shout,
And tumble all the hay about;
And as they bury one another,
Some little fellow they half smother.
And then there is a fine to do,
To coax, and kiss, and bring him to.
The cause why England is so green
Is through the sea all round her seen,
Which inland sends those gentle showers
That cover her with grass and flowers.
Such rich green pastures as our own
Nowhere throughout the world are known.
And now on waste lands we behold
The gorse-bush all one blaze of gold
And the tall foxglove's upconed spire
Seems like a pillar all on fire;
And the sweet woodbine red and white
Looks like a lady in the light,
Through some leaf-trellised casement peeping,
Convolvulus around her creeping.
Scenting the fragrant meadow-sweet,
Which by the cool clear stream we meet,
Such as the angler loves to see
While sitting patient 'neath some tree
In whose cool shadow the fish hide,
When all looks molten gold beside.
And now like gems at random flung,
The currant-bushes all are hung
With ruby, coral, pearl, and jet,
Whose sweetness no one can forget.
While overhead the crimson cherries
Look down upon the great gooseberries.
And the bees go humming round 'em,
And the sharp-eyed birds have found 'em.
The bird-pecked cherries vanish fleetest,
For they always are the sweetest.
Sometimes the long-horned butterfly,
Whose wings are of the richest dye,
With his thin tongue out may be seen
Sipping the juice where birds have been;
For he is deep enough to find
The spots where they have pierced the rind.
Gone is the lute-voiced nightingale,
That sang so in the wooded vale,
To other lands across the sea,
Where other singers soon will be.
For many a bird its note-book closes
When Summer has shed all her roses,
Bids us farewell, and sings no more
Until on some far-distant shore,
Where it will find another Spring.
Swallows still are twittering,
And it is a pleasant sight
To look upon their arrowy flight,
As they flash, and dart, and quiver,
With lightning-speed about the river.