From the Prelude to "The Vision of Sir Launfal"

OVER his keys the musing organist,
Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies;

Against our fallen and traitor lives

The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives;

Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its benedicite;

And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
We bargain for the graves we lie in;

At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:
"Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'Tis 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 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, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 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, 'Tis 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 knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

September

So doth all end,

Honored Philosophy,

Science and Art,

The bloom of the heart;-

Master, Consoler, Friend,

Make Thou the harvest of our days

To fall within Thy ways.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [18

SCYTHE SONG

MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe

Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush 'tis the lullaby Time is singing-
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,

Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!

1371

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

SEPTEMBER

SWEET is the voice that calls

From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;

And soft the breezes blow,

And eddying come and go,

In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn

The blithe quail pipes at morn,

The merry partridge drums in hidden places,
And glittering insects gleam

Above the reedy stream,

Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall
Across the garden wall,

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;
And pearly vapors lie

Along the eastern sky,

Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill

The winds shall whistle chill,

And patriarch swallows call their flocks together To fly from frost and snow,

And seek for lands where blow

The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The pollen-dusted bees

Search for the honey-lees

That linger in the last flowers of September,
While plaintive mourning doves

Coo sadly to their loves

Of the dead summer they so well remember.

The cricket chirps all day,

"O fairest summer, stay!"

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;

The wild fowl fly afar

Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

Now comes a fragrant breeze

Through the dark cedar-trees,

And round about my temples fondly lingers,

In gentle playfulness,

Like to the soft caress

Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.

Prevision

Yet, though a sense of grief

Comes with the falling leaf,

And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,
In all my autumn dreams

A future summer gleams,

Passing the fairest glories of the present!

1373

George Arnold [1834-1865]

INDIAN SUMMER

THESE are the days when birds come back,

A very few, a bird or two,

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,---
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility

Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,

And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886]

PREVISION

OH, days of beauty standing veiled apart,
With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air,
In this rich Indian summer of the heart
Well may the earth her jewelled halo wear.