July

Now 'tis the time when, tall,     The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam     Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream,     In many a fragrant ball,     Blooms of the button-bush fall.     Let us go forth and seek     Woods where the wild plums redden and the beech     Plumps its packed burs; and, swelling, just in reach,     The pawpaw, emerald sleek,     Ripens along the creek.     Now 'tis the time when ways     Of glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumes     Of the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,     A blur of orange rays,     The butterfly-blossoms blaze.     Let us go forth and hear     The spiral music that the locusts beat,     And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,     Dear to a country ear,     The cricket's summer cheer.     Now golden celandine     Is hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds,     And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads,     Beneath the fox-grape vine,     The jewel-weed's blossoms shine.     Let us go forth and see     The dragon- and the butterfly, like gems,     Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,     Weighed down by many a bee,     Nodding mellifluously.     Now morns are full of song;     The catbird and the redbird and the jay     Upon the hilltops rouse the rosy day,     Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,     Lures their wild wings along.     Now noons are full of dreams;     The clouds of heaven and the wandering breeze     Follow a vision; and the flowers and trees,     The hills and fields and streams,     Are lapped in mystic gleams.     The nights are full of love;     The stars and moon take up the golden tale     Of the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,     Mixing their fires above,     Grow eloquent thereof.     Such days are like a sigh     That beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:     Such nights are like the sweetness of a kiss     On lips that half deny,     The warm lips of July.