From the Prelude to "The Vision of Sir Launfal" OVER his keys the musing organist, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 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; At the devil's booth are all things sold, And what is so rare as a day in June? An instinct within it that reaches and towers, Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 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 God 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 grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, September 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 [18 SCYTHE SONG MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe, Sings to the blades of the grass below? Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging 1371 Andrew Lang [1844-1912] SEPTEMBER SWEET is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go, In faded gardens where the rose is dying. Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. At eve, cool shadows fall And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. Ah, soon on field and hill The winds shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember. The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest summer, stay!" The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees, And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. Prevision Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present! 1373 George Arnold [1834-1865] INDIAN SUMMER THESE are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Induces my belief, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Oh, sacrament of summer days, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Emily Dickinson (1830-1886] PREVISION OH, days of beauty standing veiled apart, |