Poems (Chitwood)/A Dream of the Summer Time

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

A DREAM OF THE SUMMER TIME.

All night have I heard the low sobbing
  And falling of the rain;
All night the monotonous falling
  Of drops on the pane.

All night from the folds of the tempest
  Have heard the winds start;
But all night a joy-speaking angel
  Has been in my heart.

Oh! thanks for the manifold blessings
  That come with the rain—
How all the parched sun-lighted valleys
  Will brighten again.

How many a fragrant bud sleeping
  In tear-gems so bright
Will open its eyes in the morning,
  Like stars in the night.

'Tis not for the manifold blessings
  That come with the rain.
And not for the musical tapping
  Of drops on the pane;

Nor the vine that will crimson with blossoms
  About the dark rock;
Nor the lambs that will be like the drifting
  Of snow in the flock;

Nor the fields that will tempt the bright sickle
  With russet and gold,
When morn with a sweet benediction
  The earth shall enfold;—

That my young heart is filled to the brimming
  With jewels of light,
That my soul-angel sweetly is singing
  Such vespers to-night.

All night through the sob and the patter
  Of wind and of rain,
A heart that but lived for my loving
  Was throbbing again;

And cheeks that were dust in the day-time
  Were pink in their bloom;
And eyes from their snowy lids softly
  Looked up from the tomb;

And locks that the damp of the coffin
  Had slowly uncurled
Were bright, and I cease to remember
  A grave in the world.

All night o'er her silent breast softly
  The summer clouds wept;
All night the frail breeze from the south-land
  Has cried where she slept.

All night through the halls of my fancy
  I paced with my love;
But now that the amber of morning
  Is glowing above,

My brow and my heart feel a bleeding
  And throbbing of pain—
A woe that no ancient nepenthe
  Can deaden again.

For Memory's spear has been buried
  So deep in my side,
That on my sad bosom, this morning,
  It seems that she died.