Summer begins to have the look
Peruser of enchanting Book
Reluctantly but sure perceives
A gain upon the backward leaves —
Autumn begins to be inferred
By millinery of the cloud
Or deeper color in the shawl
That wraps the everlasting hill.
The eye begins its avarice...
Summer for thee, grant I may be
When Summer days are flown!
Thy music still, when Whipporwill
And Oriole — are done!
For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb
And row my blossoms o'er!
Pray gather me —
Anemone —
Thy flower — forevermore!
Summer has two Beginnings —
Beginning once in June —
Beginning in October
Affectingly again —
Without, perhaps, the Riot
But graphicker for Grace —
As finer is a going
Than a remaining Face —
Departing then — forever —
Forever — until May —
...
The city is dreary and dusty and lone,
The Smiths and the Joneses and Jenkinses gone;
The doors are all barred, and the shutters all down,
And nobody left in this desolate town---
Save the sweeper who wearily loiters and lags,
The ashman, and he who cries "...
Summer is shorter than any one —
Life is shorter than Summer —
Seventy Years is spent as quick
As an only Dollar —
Sorrow — now — is polite — and stays —
See how well we spurn him —
Equally to abhor Delight —
Equally retain him —
Summer laid her simple Hat
On its boundless Shelf —
Unobserved — a Ribbon slipt,
Snatch it for yourself.
Summer laid her supple Glove
In its sylvan Drawer —
Wheresoe'er, or was she —
The demand of Awe?
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...