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.
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.
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.
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.