The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 16

O, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read: A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His Voice: I lie and listen, and rejoice.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A MIDSUMMER SONG

O, Father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will: "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!

O, where's Polly?"

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound-- A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground.

The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo, And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo: "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!

O, where's Polly?"

Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.

Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and th.o.r.n.y rose.

But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!

O, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter!

The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter.

O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill.

But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!

O, where's Polly?

Richard Watson Glider [1844-1909]

JUNE From the Prelude to "The Vision of Sir Launfal"

Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only G.o.d may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest corner.

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in gra.s.s and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The b.u.t.tercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because G.o.d wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and gra.s.s is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his l.u.s.ty crowing!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

JUNE

When the bubble moon is young, Down the sources of the breeze, Like a yellow lantern hung In the tops of blackened trees, There is promise she will grow Into beauty unforetold, Into all unthought-of gold.

Heigh ho!

When the Spring has dipped her foot, Like a bather, in the air, And the ripples warm the root Till the little flowers dare, There is promise she will grow Sweeter than the Springs of old, Fairer than was ever told.

Heigh ho!

But the moon of middle night, Risen, is the rounded moon; And the Spring of budding light Eddies into just a June.

Ah, the promise--was it so?

Nay, the gift was fairy gold; All the new is over-old.

Heigh ho!

Harrison Smith Morris [1856-

HARVEST

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind's song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long, It hath the brook's wild gayety, The sorrowful cry of the sea.

Oh, hush and hear!

Sweet, sweet and clear, Above the locust's whirr And hum of bee Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-gra.s.s The innocent white daisies blow, The dandelion plume doth pa.s.s Vaguely to and fro,-- The unquiet spirit of a flower That hath too brief an hour.

Now doth a little cloud all white, Or golden bright, Drift down the warm, blue sky; And now on the horizon line, Where dusky woodlands lie, A sunny mist doth s.h.i.+ne, Like to a veil before a holy shrine, Concealing, half-revealing, things divine.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Is the wind's song, Astir in the rippled wheat All day long.

That exquisite music calls The reaper everywhere-- Life and death must share.

The golden harvest falls.

So doth all end,-- Honored Philosophy, Science and Art, The bloom of the heart;-- Master, Consoler, Friend, Make Thou the harvest of our days To fall within Thy ways.

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the gra.s.s below?

Scythes that swing in the gra.s.s and clover, Something, still, they say as they pa.s.s; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and gra.s.s?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; Hush, they say to the gra.s.ses swaying, Hush, they sing to the clover deep!

Hush--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- Hush, and heed not, for all things pa.s.s, Hush, ah hus.h.!.+ and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the gra.s.s!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]