• A drop fell on the apple tree,

    Another on the roof ;

    A half a dozen kissed the eaves,

    And made the gables laugh.


    A few went out to help the brook,

    That went to help the sea.

    Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
    ...

  • Summer — we all have seen —

    A few of us — believed —

    A few — the more aspiring

    Unquestionably loved —


    But Summer does not care —

    She goes her spacious way

    As eligible as the moon

    To our Temerity —


    The Doom to be adored —

    The Affluence conferred —
    ...

  • On fence and roof and twig.

    The orchis binds her feather on

    For her old love, Don the Sun,

    Revisiting the bog !


    Without commander, countless, still,

    The regiment of wood and hill

    In bright detachment stand.

    Behold !  Whose multitudes are these ?

    The children of whose...

  • Talk not to me of Summer Trees

    The foliage of the mind

    A Tabernacle is for Birds

    Of no corporeal kind

    And winds do go that way at noon

    To their Ethereal Homes

    Whose Bugles call the least of us

    To undepicted Realms

  • The last of Summer is Delight —

    Deterred by Retrospect.

    'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review —

    Enchantment's Syndicate.


    To meet it — nameless as it is —

    Without celestial Mail —

    Audacious as without a Knock

    To walk within the Veil.

  • The One who could repeat the Summer day —

    Were greater than itself — though He

    Minutest of Mankind should be —


    And He — could reproduce the Sun —

    At period of going down —

    The Lingering — and the Stain — I mean —


    When Orient have been outgrown —

    And Occident — become Unknown —...

  • The Summer that we did not prize,

    Her treasures were so easy

    Instructs us by departing now

    And recognition lazy —


    Bestirs itself — puts on its Coat,

    And scans with fatal promptness

    For Trains that moment out of sight,

    Unconscious of his smartness.

  • There came a Day at Summer's full,

    Entirely for me —

    I thought that such were for the Saints,

    Where Resurrections — be —


    The Sun, as common, went abroad,

    The flowers, accustomed, blew,

    As if no soul the solstice passed

    That maketh all things new —


    The time was scarce...

  • To see the Summer Sky

    Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie —

    True Poems flee —