Summer

O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou?
In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom,
What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume,
Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?

Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feet
Even now upon the mountains. All the hills
Rise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills,
Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?

And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait!
To the far North I bend my listening ear;
By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear
One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!

Why should I haste where light and song have fled?
The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre;
The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’
When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”