Poems (Chitwood)/A Dream of the Summer Time
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 brightWill 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 uncurledWere 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.