In idle mood, this happy day,
I let the moments drift away;
I lie among the tangled grass
And watch the crinkling billows pass
O'er seas of clover. Like a tide
That sets across the meadow wide,
The crimson-crested ripples run
From isles of shade to shores of sun;
And one white lily seems to be
A sail upon this summer sea,
Blown northward, bringing me, to-day,
A fragrant freight from far Cathay.
Low as the wind that waves the rose
In gardens where the poppy grows,
And sweet as bells heard far away,
A robin sings his song to-day;
Sings softly, by his hidden nest,
A little roundelay of rest;
And as the wind his dwelling swings
He dreams his dream of unfledged wings,
While, blending with his song, I hear
A brook's low babble, somewhere near.
A glory wraps the hills, and seems
To weave an atmosphere of dreams
About the mountain's kingly crest
As sinks the sun adown the west.
Earth seems to sit with folded hands
In peace he only understands
Who has no care, no vain regret,
No sorrow he would fain forget,
And like a child upon her breast
I lie, this happy day, and rest.
The "green things growing" whisper me
Of many an earth-old mystery;
Of blossoms hiding in the mold,
And what the acorn cups enfold;
Of life unseen by eyes too dim
To look through Nature up to Him
Who writes the poem of the year
For human heart, and eye, and ear.
O summer day, surpassing fair,
With hints of heaven in earth and air,
Not long I keep you in my hold —
The book is closed—the tale is told.
The valley fills with amber mist;
The sky is gold and amethyst.
Soft, soft and low, and silver clear
The robin's vesper hymn I hear,
And see the stars lit, one by one.
The happy summer day is done.
~~
Eben E. Rexford (1848-1916)
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
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