Puslapio vaizdai

June Weather

For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking;
"T is heaven alone that is given away,
'T is only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

A Chanted Calendar

A Chanted


And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,
"T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help know-

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our car,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are


That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by:
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack,

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!





From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."


July *

When the scarlet cardinal tells

Her dream to the dragon fly,

And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,

And murmurs a lullaby,

It is July.

When the tangled cobweb pulls

The cornflower's cap awry,

And the lilies tall lean over the wall
To bow to the butterfly,

It is July.

When the heat like a mist-veil floats,

And poppies flame in the rye,

And the silver note in the streamlet's throat
Has softened almost to a sigh,
It is July.

When the hours are so still that time
Forgets them, and lets them lie

'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink
At the sunset in the sky,

It is July.


* By courtesy of Dana Estes & Co.

A Chanted


Calendar The sixth was August, being rich arrayed

In garment all of gold down to the ground;
Yet rode he not, but led a lovely maid
Forth by the lily hand, the which was crowned
With ears of corn, and full her hand was found:
That was the righteous Virgin, which of old
Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound.

In August

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 sere 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 song of summer dead.



Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,
As though he joyèd in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad
That he had banished hunger, which to-fore
Had by the belly oft him pinchèd sore:
Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'd
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore;
And in his hand a sickle he did hold,

To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had


From "The Faerie Queene."

Sweet September

O sweet September! thy first breezes bring
The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laugh-


The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor

And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.




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