God in His own right hand doth take each day-
Each sun-filled day-each rare and radiant night,
And dropp it softly on the earth and say:
'Touch earth with heaven's own beauty and delight.'

by Jean Blewett.

As Sleigh Bells Seem In Summer

981

As Sleigh Bells seem in summer
Or Bees, at Christmas show—
So fairy—so fictitious
The individuals do
Repealed from observation—
A Party that we knew—
More distant in an instant
Than Dawn in Timbuctoo.

by Emily Dickinson.

The Summer Nights Are Short

The summer nights are short
Where northern days are long:
For hours and hours lark after lark
Trills out his song.
The summer days are short
Where southern nights are long:
Yet short the night when nightingales
Trill out their song.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

651

So much Summer
Me for showing
Illegitimate—
Would a Smile's minute bestowing
Too exorbitant

To the Lady
With the Guinea
Look—if She should know
Crumb of Mine
A Robin's Larder
Would suffice to stow—

by Emily Dickinson.

Twice Had Summer Her Fair Verdure

846

Twice had Summer her fair Verdure
Proffered to the Plain—
Twice a Winter's silver Fracture
On the Rivers been—

Two full Autumns for the Squirrel
Bounteous prepared—
Nature, Had'st thou not a Berry
For thy wandering Bird?

by Emily Dickinson.

Summer For Thee, Grant I May Be

31

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!

by Emily Dickinson.

Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours

691

Would you like summer? Taste of ours.
Spices? Buy here!
Ill! We have berries, for the parching!
Weary! Furloughs of down!
Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne'er looked on!
Captive! We bring reprieve of roses!
Fainting! Flasks of air!
Even for Death, a fairy medicine.
But, which is it, sir?

by Emily Dickinson.

When the summer sky is a tent of blue,
And rosy June is the regnant queen,
A crimson shuttle, he flashes through
The leafy warp of the forest green.

And the thread of a sweet song follows him,
In mazy tangles of shade and sun,
And stretches away in the distance dim-
And the bonny bird, and the song- are one!

by Andrew Jackson Downing.

Love maketh its own summer time,
'Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
For the heart makes its own summer weather.

Love maketh its own winter time,
And though the hills blossom with heather,
If you are not near, 'tis December, my dear,
For the heart makes its own winter weather.

by Virna Sheard.

A Song [love Maketh Its Own Summer Time]

Love maketh its own summer time,
'Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
For the heart makes its own summer weather.

Love maketh its own winter time,
And though the hills blossom with heather,
If you are not near, 'tis December, my dear,
For the heart makes its own winter weather.

by Virna Sheard.

What in our lives is burnt
In the fire of this?
The heart’s dear granary?
The much we shall miss?

Three lives hath one life –
Iron, honey, gold.
The gold, the honey gone –
Left is the hard and cold.

Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields
A fair mouth’s broken tooth

by Isaac Rosenberg.

It Can'T Be "Summer"!

221

It can't be "Summer"!
That—got through!
It's early—yet—for "Spring"!
There's that long town of White—to cross—
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can't be "Dying"!
It's too Rouge—
The Dead shall go in White—
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

by Emily Dickinson.

Summer Is Ended

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless, colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
Thus with our bliss,
If we wait till the close?


Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
Sooner, later, at last,
Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
An end locked fast,
Bent we cannot re-bend.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

A Song Of Summer Days

As pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea,
These rounded summer days fall back into eternity.

Into the deep from whence they came; into the mystery--
At set of sun each one slips back as pearls into the sea.

They are so sweet--so warm and sweet--Love fain would hold them fast:
He weeps when through his finger tips they slip away at last.

by Virna Sheard.

A Summer Thought

I often think that all those vast desires
For purer joys, that thrill the human heart,
Vague yearnings such as solitude inspires,
That nameless something silence can impart,

Could after all be quenched by simple things,
Whose spirits dwell within the wide-eyed flowers,
Or haunt deep glades, where scent of primrose clings
About the garments of the passing hours.

by Radclyffe Hall.

The One Who Could Repeat The Summer Day

307

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—
His Name—remain—

by Emily Dickinson.

Hark The Sky-Lark In The Cloud

HARK the sky-lark in the cloud,
Hark the cricket in the grass,
Trilling blitheness clear and loud,
Chirping glee to all who pass.
Oh, the merry summer lay!
Earth and sky keep holiday.

Hear the leaves that kiss the air,
Hear the laughter of the bees:
Who remembers winter care
In the shining days like these?
Oh, the merry lay of June!
All our hearts are glad in tune.

by Augusta Davies Webster.

I Know A Place Where Summer Strives

I know a place where summer strives
With such a practised frost,
She each year leads her daisies back,
Recording briefly, 'Lost.'

But when the south wind stirs the pools
And struggles in the lanes,
Her heart misgives her for her vow,
And she pours soft refrains

Into the lap of adamant,
And spices, and the dew,
That stiffens quietly to quartz
Upon her amber shoe.

by Emily Dickinson.

Moonlight, Summer Moonlight

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

by Emily Jane Brontë.

'Tis Moonlight, Summer Moonlight

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

by Emily Jane Brontë.

Up here, with June, the sycamore throws
Across the window a whispering screen;
I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,
Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.
But I mean to go through the door without fear,
Not caring much what happens here
When I’m away: --
How green the screen is across the panes
Or who goes laughing along the lanes
With my old lover all the summer day.

by Charlotte Mary Mew.

Last June I saw your face three times;
Three times I touched your hand;
Now, as before, May month is o'er,
And June is in the land.

O many Junes shall come and go,
Flow'r-footed o'er the mead;
O many Junes for me, to whom
Is length of days decreed.

There shall be sunlight, scent of rose;
Warm mist of summer rain;
Only this change--I shall not look
Upon your face again.

by Amy Levy.

Summer Has Come Without The Rose

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;
The bird seemed true the summer through,
But all proved false to me.

by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy.

Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the blue-jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.

Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumachs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.

Now by great marshes wrapt in mist,
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.

by William Wilfred Campbell.

Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,
Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea;
Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining
Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me.

Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding,
Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea;
Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding,
Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless babe and me.

by Charles Kingsley.

'Twas Jack-o'-Winter hailed it first,
But now more timid angels sing,
For what dull ear can fail to hear
Afar the fluting of the Spring?

In all free spaces of the land
A sightless flame is flickering;
Through every vein it leaps amain,
The fiery miracle of Spring.

A music ranging in the air,
A lambent light in everything;
O sweet, my sweet, the subtle heat,
The dancing light of Love and Spring!

by John Le Gay Brereton.

The December Rose

Here's a rose that blows for Chloe,
Fair as ever a rose in June was,
Now the garden's silent, snowy,
Where the burning summer noon was.

In your garden's summer glory
One poor corner, shelved and shady,
Told no rosy, radiant story,
Grew no rose to grace its lady.

What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;
From his nook your secret lover
Shows what slighted roses grow to
When the rose you chose is over.

by Edith Nesbit.

Song. O Spirit Of The Summer-Time!

O spirit of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.

Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

by William Allingham.

Summer Is Dying

Summer is dying in the purple and gold and russet
of the falling leaves of the wood,
and the sunset clouds are dying
in their own blood.

In the emptying public gardens
the last strollers break their walk
to lift their eyes and follow
the flight of the last stork.

The heart is orphaned. Soon
the cold rains will be drumming.
'Have you patched your coat for winter!
Stocked potatoes against its coming?'

by Hayyim Nahman Bialik.

The Fair Summer Flowers

The fair summer flowers
Are faded and flown,
The leaves of the bowers
Wan-stricken and strown;
Like the hopes of my bosom,
All vanished and o'er,
They are blighted, to blossom
No more- never more!

Yet flowers in the valley
And leaves on the bower,
Shall again flourish gaily
To sunshine and shower;
O! as fair will they blossom
As those gone before,
But new hopes in my bosom,
No more- never more!

by John Imlah.

Tell Summer That I Died

When he was old and thin
And knew not night or day
He would sit up to say
Something of the fire within.
How woefully his chin
Moved so slowly as he tried
Some lusty word to say:
Tell Summer that I died.

When gladness sweeps the land,
And to the white sky
Cool butterflies go by,
And sheep in shadow stand;
When Love, the old command,
Turns every hate aside,
In the unstinted days
Tell Summer that I died.

by John Shaw Neilson.

How plain and height
With dewdrops are bright!
How pearls have crown'd
The plants all around!
How sighs the breeze
Thro' thicket and trees!
How loudly in the sun's clear rays
The sweet birds carol forth their lays!

But, ah! above,
Where saw I my love,
Within her room,
Small, mantled in gloom,
Enclosed around,
Where sunlight was drown'd,
How little there was earth to me,
With all its beauteous majesty!

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Further In Summer Than The Birds

1068

Further in Summer than the Birds
Pathetic from the Grass
A minor Nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.

No Ordinance be seen
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness.

Antiquest felt at Noon
When August burning low
Arise this spectral Canticle
Repose to typify

Remit as yet no Grace
No Furrow on the Glow
Yet a Druidic Difference
Enhances Nature now

by Emily Dickinson.

January Cold Desolate

January cold desolate;
February all dripping wet;
March wind ranges;
April changes;
Birds sing in tune
To flowers of May,
And sunny June
Brings longest day;
In scorched July
The storm-clouds fly
Lightning-torn;
August bears corn,
September fruit;
In rough October
Earth must disrobe her;
Stars fall and shoot
In keen November;
And night is long
And cold is strong
In bleak December.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

There Are Days In June

There are days in June that seem to be December.
Thus sometimes the substance of this room
or more accurately the people in it who pray silently
start up in the midst of happiness and alter,
bewitched by a murmur from the calm foliage.

Our hearts are shifting as the winds
changing,
pliable as gold.

See this windless sail,
motionless?
Almost before one feels the subtle breeze,
it stirs up
and slips away.

by Francis Jammes.

Who thinks of June's first rose today?
Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and
rough bright hair will reach it down.
In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far away
As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town.
What's little June to a great broken world with eyes gone dim
From too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread?
Or what's the broken world to June and him
Of the small eager hand, the shining eyes, the rough bright head?

by Charlotte Mary Mew.

Her Final Summer Was It,

Her final summer was it,
And yet we guessed it not;
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded her, we thought

A further force of life
Developed from within,--
When Death lit all the shortness up,
And made the hurry plain.

We wondered at our blindness,--
When nothing was to see
But her Carrara guide-post,--
At our stupidity

When, duller than our dulness,
The busy darling lay,
So busy was she, finishing,
So leisurely were we!

by Emily Dickinson.

Summer Of Roses

Summer of roses! O empress of flowers!
You are all I care to know:
you and your many sisters
who launch your love arrows, though already caught
in the pull of the tomb.

What words do you whisper in that silent language?

Why do you insist so unyieldingly
That your garden must fade as it is born?
Do you bloom only for the poet
whose mind you pollinate with your beauty
and who immortalizes your unspoken wisdom
in a simple phrase?

by Francis Jammes.

Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain,
In Summer, in a burst of summertime
Following falls and falls of rain,
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of
Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime;
. . . . . . . .
The motion of that man’s heart is fine
Whom want could not make píne, píne
That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him
Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine.
. . . . . . . .

by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Am I waking, am I sleeping?
As the first faint dawn comes creeping
Thro' the pane, I am aware
Of an unseen presence hovering,
Round, above, in the dusky air:
A downy bird, with an odorous wing,
That fans my forehead, and sheds perfume,
As sweet as love, as soft as death,
Drowsy-slow through the summer-gloom.
My heart in some dream-rapture saith,
It is she. Half in a swoon,
I spread my arms in slow delight.--
O prolong, prolong the night,
For the nights are short in June!

by Amy Levy.