Songs Of The Summer Days

I.         A glory on the chamber wall!         A glory in the brain!         Triumphant floods of glory fall         On heath, and wold, and plain.         Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss;         She has, and seeks no more;         Forgets that days come after this,         Forgets the days before.         Each ripple waves a flickering fire         Of gladness, as it runs;         They laugh and flash, and leap and spire,         And toss ten thousand suns.         But hark! low, in the world within,         One sad aeolian tone:         "Ah! shall we ever, ever win         A summer of our own?"         II.         A morn of winds and swaying trees--         Earth's jubilance rushing out!         The birds are fighting with the breeze;         The waters heave about.         White clouds are swept across the sky,         Their shadows o'er the graves;         Purpling the green, they float and fly         Athwart the sunny waves.         The long grass--an earth-rooted sea--         Mimics the watery strife.         To boat or horse? Wild motion we         Shall find harmonious life.         But whither? Roll and sweep and bend         Suffice for Nature's part;         But motion to an endless end         Is needful for our heart.         III.         The morn awakes like brooding dove,         With outspread wings of gray;         Her feathery clouds close in above,         And roof a sober day.         No motion in the deeps of air!         No trembling in the leaves!         A still contentment everywhere,         That neither laughs nor grieves!         A film of sheeted silver gray         Shuts in the ocean's hue;         White-winged feluccas cleave their way         In paths of gorgeous blue.         Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day,         Thy very clouds are dreams!         Yon child is dreaming far away--         He is not where he seems.         IV.         The lark is up, his faith is strong,         He mounts the morning air;         Lone voice of all the creature throng,         He sings the morning prayer.         Slow clouds from north and south appear,         Black-based, with shining slope;         In sullen forms their might they rear,         And climb the vaulted cope.         A lightning flash, a thunder boom!--         Nor sun nor clouds are there;         A single, all-pervading gloom         Hangs in the heavy air.         A weeping, wasting afternoon         Weighs down the aspiring corn;         Amber and red, the sunset soon         Leads back to golden morn.