In the Afternoon

WIND of the summer afternoon,
Hush, for my heart is out of tune !
Hush, for thou movest restlessly
The too light sleeper, Memory !

Whate'er thou hast to tell me, yet
'Twere something sweeter to forget,
Sweeter than all thy breath of balm
An hour of unremembering calm !

Blowing over the roofs, and down
The bright streets of this inland town,
These busy crowds, these rocking trees,
What strange note hast thou caught from these ?

A note of waves and rushing tides,
Where past the dikes the red flood glides,
To brim the shining channels far
Up the green plains of Tantramar.

Once more I snuff the salt, I stand
On the long dikes of Westmoreland ;
I watch the narrowing flats, the strip
Of red clay at the water's lip ;

Far off the net-reels, brown and high,
And boat-masts slim against the sky ;
Along the ridges of the dikes
Wind-beaten scant sea-grass, and spikes

Of last year's mullein ; down the slopes
To landward, in the sun, thick ropes
Of blue vetch, and convolvulus,
And matted roses glorious.

The liberal blooms o'erbrim my hands ;
I walk the level wide marsh-lands ;
Waist-deep in dusty blossomed grass
I watch the swooping breezes pass
In sudden long pale lines, that flee
Up the deep breast of this green sea.

I listen to the bird that stirs
The purple tops, and grasshoppers
Whose summer din, before my feet
Subsiding, wakes on my retreat.

Again the droning bees hum by ;
Still-winged, the grey hawk wheels on high ;
I drink again the wild perfumes,
And roll, and crush the grassy blooms.

Blown back to olden days, I fain
Would quaff the olden joys again ;
But all the olden sweetness not
The old unmindful peace hath brought.

Wind of this summer afternoon,
Thou hast recalled my childhood's June ;
Wind of the summer afternoon,
Be still ; my heart is not in tune.

Sweet is thy voice ; but yet, but yet,-
Of all 'twere sweetest to forget !