And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams
Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells
Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums
Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells—
And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon
The blackbirds—and the blackguards—that keep robbing me of pie;
For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden
And what is half so lovely as my garden in July?
Robert Ernest Vernède
"MID-SUMMER BLOOMS WITHIN OUR QUIET GARDEN-WAYS"
Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways;
A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays;
Gay flower petals strew
—Pearl, emerald and blue—
The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass;
The pools are clear as glass
Between the white cups of the lily-flowers;
The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers;
A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose,
Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws,
And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees
Over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please.
The air is pearly, iridescent, pure;
These profound and radiant noons mature,
Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light;
Familiar roads to distances invite
Like slow and graceful gestures, one by one
Bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun.
Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts,
No other garden with such grace and power;
And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts
That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.
Emile Verhaeren
POPPIES
O perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days,
The season's emblems ye,
As nodding lazily
Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays,
And soothe the tired gazer's sense
With lulling surges of your softest somnolence.