O BEAUTIFUL Summer! thou bringest again The pomp of thy life to the children of men; The light, once of Eden, lies fair on thy hills, The echoes of Paradise sing in thy rills; Sweet, sweet are thy winds as they wander and sigh Through the far tops of pines and the green spears of rye And warm on thy meadows lies, fold upon fold, Thy mantle that glimmers with ruby and gold. O beautiful Summer! thy roses are free, And toss in their bloom like the foam of the sea; They are crimson like wine, they are white like the snow, And the breath of their cups is of censers aglow; Thy lilies are pure, and all proudly they stand, Unchallenged and chaste in the jubilant land. No charm is less potent, no splendor is gone From the slow-stealing eve or the swift-waking dawn. So, Summer the royal, the fault is not thine If thou bear to our spirits more shadow than shine,— If, grasping thy roses with olden desire, Too soon of their passionate fragrance we tire; In all the rich chords of thy manifold strain, If to us be a minor, keen-edged as with pain, Thou bringest back Eden,—an angel of strife Still bars from our taking its green tree of life. We are losing the strength of the days that were young, Our hopes are no longer like banners outflung; We have parted with friends who were leal at our side, The voices of children in silence have died. Of the plans which we planned, of the works which we wrought, Of the turreted castles of glorious thought, How little remains! they are crumbling to dust, The robes are moth-eaten, the weapons are rust. And all in rebellion we turn from the good Thou offerest now. In perverseness of mood We cry to thee: "Come not with smile nor with gift, The cloud of our darkness thy beam shall not rift; Laugh on with thy lilies, and garland the hours With infinite tinting of exquisite flowers; Sweet, sweet let thy winds in their gladness go by, For us there is naught but to sorrow and die." O beautiful Summer! we flout thee in vain; There is patience with thee, though we, thankless, complain. Thy heart is the mother's. The mother knows best When to let the grieved child just lie close to her breast, With soft arms to clasp it, with kisses to cheer, With a calm word to soothe it: "My love and my dear, Wait only,—the trouble will pass with the day." We hear the sweet whisper, we 're fain to obey. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ROAD TO AVIGNON by AMY LOWELL DEPARTURE IN THE DARK by CECIL DAY LEWIS TORTOISE SHELL by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE EPIGRAM ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG by ALEXANDER POPE THE MILKING-MAID by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE WORLD; SONNET by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH AUTUMN by JESSIE ALBERT BARNEY VERSES, RESPECTFULLY & AFFECTIONALLY INSCRIBED TO PROFESSIONAL FRIEND by BERNARD BARTON |