The cold blast at the casement beats;
The window-panes are white;
The snow whirls through the empty streets;
It is a dreary night!
Sit down, old friend, the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o’erflowing, fill!
Though winter howleth at the gate,
In our hearts ’t is summer still!
For we full many summer joys
And greenwood...
I feel the breath of the summer night,
Aromatic fire:
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.
The white moths flutter about the lamp,
Enamoured with light;
And a thousand creatures softly sing
A song to the night!
But I am alone, and how can I sing
Praises to thee?
...
Summer is fading; the broad leaves that grew
So freshly green, when June was young, are falling;
And, all the whisper-haunted forest through,
The restless birds in saddened tones are calling,
From rustling hazel copse and tangled dell,
“Farewell, sweet Summer,
Fragrant, fruity Summer,
Sweet, farewell!”
No more the battle or the chase
The phantom tribes pursue,
But each in its accustomed place
The Autumn hails anew:
And still from solemn councils set
On every hill and plain,
The smoke of many a calumet
Ascends to heaven again.
I found a yellow flower in the grass,
A tiny flower with petals like a bell,
And yet, methought, more than a flower it was,—
More like a miracle.
Above, the sky was clear, save where at times
Soft-tinted fleeces drifted dreamily,
Bearing a benison to sunny climes
From altars of the sea.
In vestments green the pines...
“oh dear! is Summer over?”
I heard a rosebud moan,
When first her eyes she opened,
And found she was alone.
“Oh, why did Summer leave me,
Little me, belated?
Where are the other roses?
I think they might have waited.”
Soon the little rosebud
Saw to her surprise
Other rosebuds opening,
So she...
IN summer, when the days were long,
We walked together in the wood:
Our heart was light, our steps were strong;
Sweet flutterings were there in our blood,
In summer, when the days were long.
We strayed from morn till evening came;
We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns;
We walked mid poppies red as flame,
Or sat upon...
Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind?
Is the blue changed above thee,
O world! or am I blind?
Will you change every flower that grows,
Or only change this spot,
Where she who said, I love thee,
Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee,
The rose true on the tree;
...
We ’ll not weep for summer over,—
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,—
Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he ’s lying
With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered...
Thick lay the dust, uncomfortably white,
In glaring mimicry of Arab sand.
The woods and mountains slept in hazy light;
The meadows looked athirst and tawny tanned;
The little rills had left their channels bare,
With scarce a pool to witness what they were;
And the shrunk river gleamed ’mid oozy stones,
That stared like any famished giant’...
