Page:Poems Cook.djvu/329

The moping idiot seemeth less distraught,
 When he can sit upon the grass all day,
And laugh and clutch the blades, as though he thought
 The yellow sun-rays challenged him to play.

Ah gladly now I hail the nightingale,
 And greet the bee—that merry-going hummer—
And when the lilies peep so sweet and pale,
 I kiss their cheeks, and say, "Thank God for Summer!"

Feet that limp, blue and bleeding, as they go
 For dainty cresses in December's dawn,
Can wade and dabble in the brooklet's flow,
 And woo the gurgles on a July morn.

The tired pilgrim, who would shrink with dread
 If Winter's drowsy torpor lull'd his brain,
Is free to choose his mossy, summer bed,
 And sleep his hour or two in some green lane.

Oh! Ice-toothed King, I loved you once—but now
 I never see you come without a pang
Of hopeless pity shadowing my brow,
 To think how naked flesh must feel your fang.

My eyes watch now to see the elms unfold,
 And my ears listen to the callow rook;
I hunt the palm-trees for their first, rich gold,
 And pry for violets in the southern nook.

And when fair Flora sends the butterfly,
 Painted and spangled, as her herald mummer,
"Now for warm holidays," my heart will cry,
 "The poor will suffer less! Thank God for Summer."

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