ards me now!

VII

Summer glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and
daisies
Darken 'mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses
Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay-
makers
Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the
mowing,
And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the
gloaming
Wears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield
now;
Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage,
Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, for
windless
Heaven's blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy white
valleys;
Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels,
melodious
With the invisible joy that wakes dawn o'er the green fields of
England.
Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro' them
gaily,
Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of dark
freckles.
Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead,
Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chance
coolness,
But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal.
Heed him not; come, tho' he kiss till the soft little upper-lip
loses
Half its pure whiteness; just speck'd where the curve of the rosy
mouth reddens.

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee the
sweeter.
Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a withering
pallor!
City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day,
Hung upon hedges of eglantine! Thou in the freedom of nature,
Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness!
Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of
noontide;
Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border'd by hillside and river,
Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of white meadow-
sweet, sweetest,
Blissfully hovers--O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the
tenderest
Grasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a
posy.

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers are
falling!
Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the long
twilight:
Mute w