SONG OF THE SEASONS
Sing, oh sing, ’tis summer time!
Sing it ’mong the roses,—
Sing it till each sleeping bud,
Dewy-eyed, uncloses.
Sing it through the woodlands, till
All the song-birds hear it!
Sing,—till every blade of grass
Finds a voice to cheer it.
* * * *
Sigh, oh sigh, ’tis winter drear!
Sigh it through the flowing
Shroud that over earth’s dead breast
Falls in time of snowing.
Sigh it through the bare brown stems
That once held the roses!
Sigh it round the grave, that o’er
Summer’s glory closes.
ONE SUMMER DAY
The sky stretched blue above us,
The sea slept at our feet,
As still, as if its mighty heart
Had almost ceased to beat.
A trembling hush seemed slowly
Across the earth to steal,
As when after benediction
The priest and people kneel.
It was as though God’s finger
Lay on the pulse of life,
And stilled, for one brief moment,
Its tumult and its strife.