Poems (May)/Summer
For works with similar titles, see Summer.
SUMMER.
The early spring hath gone; I see her stand
Afar off on the hills, white clouds, like doves,
Yoked by the south wind to her opal car,
And at her feet a lion and a lamb
Couched, side by side. Irresolute spring hath gone!
And summer comes like Psyche, zephyr-borne
To her sweet land of pleasures.
Afar off on the hills, white clouds, like doves,
Yoked by the south wind to her opal car,
And at her feet a lion and a lamb
Couched, side by side. Irresolute spring hath gone!
And summer comes like Psyche, zephyr-borne
To her sweet land of pleasures.
She is here!
Amid the distant vales she tarried long,
But she hath come, oh joy!—for I have heard
Her many-chorded harp the livelong day
Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late,
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came
The wild north wind careering like a steed
Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth
Into the forest, and its poised leaves
Are platformed for the zephyr's dancing feet.
Under its green pavilions she hath reared
Most beautiful things; the spring's pale orphans lie
Sheltered upon her breast; the bird's loud song
At morn outsoars his pinion, and when waves
Put on night's silver harness, the still air
Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized
Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed
All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven,
And all that hail its smile. Her ministry
Is typical of love. She hath disdained
No gentle office, but doth bend to twine
The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart
The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass
Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift
The trodden weed; and when her lowlier children
Faint by the way-side like worn passengers,
She is a gentle mother, all night long
Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews.
The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the days
Are dowered with her beauty.
Amid the distant vales she tarried long,
But she hath come, oh joy!—for I have heard
Her many-chorded harp the livelong day
Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late,
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came
The wild north wind careering like a steed
Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth
Into the forest, and its poised leaves
Are platformed for the zephyr's dancing feet.
Under its green pavilions she hath reared
Most beautiful things; the spring's pale orphans lie
Sheltered upon her breast; the bird's loud song
At morn outsoars his pinion, and when waves
Put on night's silver harness, the still air
Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized
Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed
All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven,
And all that hail its smile. Her ministry
Is typical of love. She hath disdained
No gentle office, but doth bend to twine
The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart
The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass
Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift
The trodden weed; and when her lowlier children
Faint by the way-side like worn passengers,
She is a gentle mother, all night long
Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews.
The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the days
Are dowered with her beauty.
Priestess! queen!
Amid the ruined temples of the wood,
She hath rebuilt her altars, and called back
The scattered choristers, and over aisles
Where the slant sunshine like a curious stranger
Glided through arches and bare choirs, hath spread
A roof magnificent.. She hath awaked
Her oracle, that, dumb and paralyzed,
Slept with the torpid serpents of the lightning,
Bidding his dread voice, nature's mightiest,
Speak mystically of all hidden things
To the attentive spirit.
Amid the ruined temples of the wood,
She hath rebuilt her altars, and called back
The scattered choristers, and over aisles
Where the slant sunshine like a curious stranger
Glided through arches and bare choirs, hath spread
A roof magnificent.. She hath awaked
Her oracle, that, dumb and paralyzed,
Slept with the torpid serpents of the lightning,
Bidding his dread voice, nature's mightiest,
Speak mystically of all hidden things
To the attentive spirit.
There is laid
No knife upon her sacrificial altar,
And from her lips there comes no pealing triumph;
But to those crystal halls where silence sits
Enchanted, hath arisen a mingled strain
Of music, delicate as the breath of buds,
And on her shrines the virgin hours lay
Odours and exquisite dyes, like gifts that kings
Send from the spicy gardens of the East.
No knife upon her sacrificial altar,
And from her lips there comes no pealing triumph;
But to those crystal halls where silence sits
Enchanted, hath arisen a mingled strain
Of music, delicate as the breath of buds,
And on her shrines the virgin hours lay
Odours and exquisite dyes, like gifts that kings
Send from the spicy gardens of the East.