1850-60.] WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. 681 THE BOBOLINKS ARE SINGING. Out of its fragrant heart of bloom — The boboHnks are singing ! Out of its fragrant heart of bloom, The apple-tree whispers to the room, " Why art thou but a nest of gloom. While the bobolinks are singing?" The two wan ghosts of the chamber there — The bobolinks are singing! The two wan ghosts of the chamber there Cease in the breath of the honeyed air. Sweep from the room and leave it bare, While the bobolinks are singing. Then with a breath so chill and slow — The bobolinks are singino; ! Then with a breath so chill and slow, That freezes the blossoms into snow, The haunted room makes answer low, While the bobolinks are singing. I know that in the meadow land The bobolinks are singing ! I know that in the meadow land The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand. And the brook goes by on the other hand, While the bobolinks are singing:. " But ever I see, in the brawling stream — The bobolinks are singing ! But ever I see in the brawling stream A maiden drowned and floating dim, Under the water, like a dream. While the bobolinks are singing. " Buried, she lies in the meadow-land ! The bobolinks are singing ! Buried, she lies in the meadow-land, Under the sorrowful elms where they stand ; Wind, blow over her soft and bland, While the bobolinks are singing. " blow, but stir not the ghostly thing — The bobolinks are singing ! blow, but stir not the ghostly thing The farmer saw so heavily swing From the elm, one merry morn of Spring, While the bobolinks were singing. " blow, and blow away the bloom — The bobolinks are singing ! blow, and blow away the bloom That sickens me in my heart of gloom. That frightens my ghosts away from their room. While the bobolinks are singing ! " SUMMER DEAD. All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream. The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom. And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom. The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sear grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet. The robins strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead ; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A sous: of summer dead.
