O. W. H.
(August 29, 1809.)
"How shall I crown this child?" fair Summer cried.
"May wasted all her violets long ago;
No longer on the hills June's roses glow,
Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide.
My stately lilies one by one have died:
The clematis is but a ghost—and lo!
In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow;
How shall I crown this Summer child?" she sighed.
Then quickly smiled. "For him, for him," she said,
"On every hill my golden-rod shall flame,
Token of all my prescient soul foretells.
His shall be golden song and golden fame—
Long golden years with love and honor wed—
And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!"
"May wasted all her violets long ago;
No longer on the hills June's roses glow,
Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide.
My stately lilies one by one have died:
The clematis is but a ghost—and lo!
In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow;
How shall I crown this Summer child?" she sighed.
Then quickly smiled. "For him, for him," she said,
"On every hill my golden-rod shall flame,
Token of all my prescient soul foretells.
His shall be golden song and golden fame—
Long golden years with love and honor wed—
And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!"
