August

I.     Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace,     Benign, of calm maturity, she stands     Among her meadows and her orchard-lands,     And on her mellowing gardens and her trees,     Out of the ripe abundance of her hands     Bestows increase     And fruitfulness, as, wrapped in sunny ease,     Blue-eyed and blonde she goes     Upon her bosom Summer's richest rose. II.     And he who follows where her footsteps lead,     By hill and rock, by forest-side and stream,     Shall glimpse the glory of her visible dream,     In flower and fruit, in rounded nut and seed:     She, in whose path the very shadows gleam;     Whose humblest weed     Seems lovelier than June's loveliest flower, indeed,     And sweeter to the smell     Than April's self within a rainy dell. III.     Hers is a sumptuous simplicity     Within the fair Republic of her flowers,     Where you may see her standing hours on hours,     Breast-deep in gold, soft-holding up a bee     To her hushed ear; or sitting under bowers     Of greenery,     A butterfly a-tilt upon her knee;     Or lounging on her hip,     Dancing a cricket on her finger-tip. IV.     Ay, let me breathe hot scents that tell of you;     The hoary catnip and the meadow-mint,     On which the honour of your touch doth print     Itself as odour. Let me drink the hue     Of iron-weed and mist-flow'r here that hint,     With purple and blue,     The rapture that your presence doth imbue     Their inmost essence with,     Immortal though as transient as a myth. V.     Yea, let me feed on sounds that still assure     Me where you hide: the brooks', whose happy din     Tells where, the deep retired woods within,     Disrobed, you bathe; the birds', whose drowsy lure     Tells where you slumber, your warm nestling chin     Soft on the pure,     Pink cushion of your palm.. .    What better cure     For care and memory's ache     Than to behold you so, and watch you wake!