Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Summer ("As far—to space's utmost ends…")

Summer.

'Tis Summer, 'tis Summer, the wild birds are singing,The woods and the glens with their sweet notes are ringing;The skies are all glowing with crimson and gold,And the trees their bright blossoms begin to unfold.The cushat is breathing his murmurs of love,The stars are adorning the blue skies above,While the moon in her beauty is shining on high,And soothing the heart, while she pleases the eye.

'Tis Summer, 'tis Summer,—and Winter no moreIs heard in the winds, or the ocean's wild roar;But so calm are the waves over all the great deep,That their murmurs might lull a young infant to sleep.The streamlets are gliding all lovely and calm—And the zephyrs come laden with fragrance and balm;Then, oh! let us bow to the merciful Power,Who lives in the sunbeam, the tree, and the flower,Who stills the wild tempest, and bids the vast seaUnruffled and calm as a placid lake be—Let us bow to that God, who gave Summer its birth,And who scatters His treasures all over the earth.