THIS is St. Luke, his Summer: you shall see The Spirit of Summer flit by hill and lea. The Earth turns from her dying to rejoice Thinking the Spring comes, from the robin's voice, She takes to be the thrush's. Oh, she is young, She was but dreaming she was old so long. This is St. Luke, his Summer: silver of mist Covers the mountains, shot with amethyst. The heat lies in the valleys: sheep and kine Are glad deep down in opal and sapphirine. Cool dews about their feet and springing grass, They think: How like a dream the Winters pass! The bee goes questing for honey in amaze, To find so few flowers in the golden ways And all the trees barred like himself in gold. He thinks Winter a story that is told, So pale the Summer goes like a sweet ghost A little while before the nipping frost. |