There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting, Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease; The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,— I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.
And yet, should I go down beside the swollen river Where the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea, With the mind and the will to cross the new-born waters And to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,
—I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-fever And touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire; Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten, And the freedom of the logs had become my soul’s desire.
Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious! For now the sudden promise of the Spring Hath been fulfilled in many ways to us, And all live things are thine. Therefore, while all the earth Is glad, and young, and strangely riotous With love of thee, whose blood is even as wine, _I_ dare to sing, Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming; I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.
Yet with no scorn of any passed days Come I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,— Making of ancient woes the stronger praise; Nor build I this new crown For my new love’s fair head Of flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways, And then forgot and utterly cast down; But from the measure Of a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasure I glean, and thus my love is garlanded.
Yea, with a crown such as no other queen That ever ruled on earth wore round her hair, And garments such as man hath never seen! The beauty Heaven hath For thee was magnified; I think the least of thy bright gold and green Once lived along God’s best-beloved path, And angels there
Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair, And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth’s bride. How at thy coming we were glad again! We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee; And fain of death as one aweary of pain. Life had grown burthensome, Till suddenly we learned The joy the old brown earth has, when the rain Comes, and the earth is glad that it has come: That ecstasy The buds have, when the worn snow sets them free, The sea’s delight when storm-time has returned.
O season of the strong triumphant Sun! Bringer of exultation unto all! Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run. Over thy growing grain How the winds rise and cease! Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun— There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain! Where trees are tall, Hear where young birds hold their high festival; And see where shallow waters know thy peace.