What Makes The Summer?

It is not the lark's clear tone     Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,     Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night -     Not these alone     Make the sweet sounds of summer;     But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly     And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight -     These help to make the summer.     Not roses redly blown,     Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,     Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare -     Not these alone     Make the sweet sights of summer     But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds     And slender grasses, springing up everywhere -     These help to make the summer.     One heaven bends above;     The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;     O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,     Is the same love, it is all God's summer;     Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,     So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,     You help to make the summer.