The wind is singing through the trees to-night, A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences And crashing intervals. No summer breeze
Is this, though hot July is at its height,
Gone is her gentler music; with delight She listens to this booming like the seas, These elemental, loud necessities
Which call to her to answer their swift might. Above the tossing trees shines down a star, Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy
Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind, O Star! is filled with your white light, from far, So suffer me this one night to enjoy
The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.
~~ Amy Lowell (1874-1925) from A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, 1912
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
We left the city, street and square, With lamp lights glimmering through and through,
And turned us toward the suburb, where – Full from the east – the fresh wind blew.
One cloud stood overhead the sun – A glorious trail of dome and spire –
The last star flickered, and was gone; The first lark led the matin choir.
Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way;
The lichen had a lovelier red, The elderflower a fairer grey.
And there was silence on the land, Save when, from out the city's fold,
Stricken by time's remorseless wand, A bell across the morning tolled.
The beeches sighed through all their boughs; The gusty pennons of the pine
Swayed in a melancholy drowse, But with a motion sternly fine.
One gable, full against the sun, Flooded the garden-space beneath
With spices, sweet as cinnamon, From all its honeysuckled breadth.
Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney tops were plumed with smoke,
The windmill shook its slanted arms, The sun was up, the country woke!
And voices sounded mid the trees Of orchards red with burning leaves,
By thick hives sentineled by bees – From fields which promised tented sheaves;
Till the day waxed into excess, And on the misty rounding grey –
One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay.
To-day the sun has stedfast been and clear — No wind has marred the spell of hushful heat, But, with the twilight, comes a rush and beat
Of ghost-like wings; the sky turns grey and drear, The trees are stricken with a sudden fear. O wind forlorn, that sayeth nothing sweet, With what foreboding message dost them greet
The dearest month but one of all the year?
Ah, now it seems I catch the moan of seas Whose boundaries are pale regions of dismay,
Where sad-eyed people wander without ease; I see in thought that lamentable array, And surely hear about the dying day
Recorded dooms and mournful prophecies.
~~ Philip Bourke Marston (1850-1887) from Wind-voices, 1883 [Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
In the flashes and black shadows
of July
the days, locked in each other’s arms,
seem still
so that squirrels and colored birds
go about at ease over
the branches and through the air.
Where will a shoulder split or
a forehead open and victory be?
Nowhere.
Both sides grow older.
And you may be sure
not one leaf will lift itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.
~~ William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) from Sour Grapes, 1921 [Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen.
But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star;
She did surpass her sister, Which pass'd all others far.
She would me honey call; She'd, O she'd kiss me too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
In summer time to Medley, My love and I would go;
The boatmen there stood ready, My love and I to row.
For cream there would we call, For cakes, and for prunes too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
Many a merry meeting My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting, She made my heart full glad,
The tears stood in her eyes, Like to the morning dew;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
And as abroad we walked, As lovers' fashion is,
Oft as we sweetly talked The sun should steal a kiss.
The wind upon her lips Likewise most sweetly blew;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry, She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about, No cares we ever knew;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
As we walked home together At midnight through the town,
To keep away the weather O'er her I'd cast my gown.
No cold my love should feel, Whate'er the heavens could do;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
Like doves we would be billing, And clip and kiss so fast;
Yet she would be unwilling That I should kiss the last.
They're Judas-kisses now, Since that they proved untrue;
For now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.
To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give;
You may give them the hearing, But never them believe.
They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue;
For mine, alas! has left me, Falero, lero, loo.
'Twas I that paid for all things, 'Twas others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things, Live but a fool to pine.
'Twas I that beat the bush, The bird to others flew;
For she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo.
If ever that dame Nature, For this false lover's sake,
Another pleasing creature Like unto her would make,
Let her remember this, To make the other true;
For this, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo.
No riches now can raise me, No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me, Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a world itself, My earthly heaven, adieu,
Since she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo.
~~ George Wither (1588-1667) from The Poetry of George Wither, 1902
Month of sultry noons and nights! Fields are parched for want of rain;
But thou hast thy own delights, Luscious fruits and golden grain.
Ripened wheat in heavy sheaves, Merry workmen store away,
Pile in barns above the eaves, On the mows of fragrant hay.
'Tis the bright noon of the year, Overhead the hot sun gleams,
Through the quivering atmosphere, Pierce all day his ardent beams.
Dewy night and misty morn Follow sunset bright and clear;
In the field the waving corn Sends aloft its stalk and ear.
Thunder-storms at midday rise, Veiling noon in deepest gloom,
O'er the clouds the lightning flies, How its flashes all illume!
Swiftly comes the dashing rain — Hillsides perishing with thirst,
Drink, and are refreshed again; Streams their limits quickly burst.
Gone the shower, the floods recede, Brightly shines the sun again;
Heat and moisture fill the need, Rich growth covers all the plain.
In the orchard apples show Rich tints borrowed from the sun;
Mid the bright green leaves they glow, Here and there a luscious one.
Month of sultry noons and nights! Fields are parched for lack of rain,
But thou hast thy rare delights, Sweet ripe fruits and golden grain.
Busy, languid harvest time, Days to Nature's lovers dear;
Summer yet is in her prime, And her glory crowns the year.
~~ Ellwood Roberts (1846-1921) From Lyrics of Quakerism, and other poems, 1895
The rowdy dogs that frolic in the park
may run, and jump, and gambol playfully,
but all dogs when they spy a likely tree
must lift a nether leg and leave a mark.
Some dogs must growl at every bird and frog,
and some must leave their stools upon the street,
and some must bark at every other dog,
and some must snap at every poor man's feet.
A man who's being dogged must learn to fight,
to put the boots to any mangy cur
that's troubled by the fleas amidst its fur
and make the mongrel yowl! Then doggie might
run off to find a more defenceless bone
and leave the weary traveller alone.
~~ George J. Dance, 2007 from Doggerel, and other doggerel, 2015. [All rights reserved - used with permission]
July's for Independence Day,
For flags and speeches and for play,
For hiding deep in meadow grass
And watching flying creatures pass,
For sailing boats on little seas,
Where just the smallest summer breeze
Can blow; for picking flowers any day;
July comes for flags and play.
~~ Annette Wynne (1919-1922 fl.)
from For Days and Days, 1919.
[Poem is in the public domain in the United States]
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.
~~ Walt Whitman (1819-1892) from November Boughs, 1888 [Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
White feet in the fairy fern – Quick wings in a chrysolite sky –
And an amethyst lamp in the west to burn,
When the cool dusk hours for which lovers yearn Pass in sweet silence by: Over summer seas Thou bringest these Hither, July.
II
Stern hours have the merciless Fates Plotted for all who die:
But looking down upon Richmond's aits,
Where the merles sing low to their amorous mates, Who cares to ask them why? We'll have wit, love, wine, Ere thy days divine Wither, July.
III
For the blossom of youth must fade, And the vigor of life must fly;
Yet to-day is ours with its odorous shade,
And the loving eyes which soon betrayed Dreams in the heart that lie. Swift life's stream flows, But alas! who knows Whither, July.
~~ Mortimer Collins (1827-1876) from The Inn of Strange Meetings, and other poems, 1871
Let other tongues in older lands Loud vaunt their claims to glory,
And chaunt in triumph of the past, Content to live in story.
Tho' boasting no baronial halls, Nor ivy-crested towers,
What past can match thy glorious youth, Fair Canada of ours? Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours!
We love those far-off ocean Isles, Where Britain's monarch reigns; We'll ne'er forget the good old blood That courses through our veins;
Proud Scotia's fame, old Erin's name, And haughty Albion's powers,
Reflect their matchless lustre on This Canada of ours. Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours!
May our Dominion flourish then, A goodly land and free,
Where Celt and Saxon, hand in hand, Hold sway from sea to sea;
Strong arms shall guard our cherished homes, When darkest danger lowers,
And with our life-blood we'll defend This Canada of ours. Fair Canada, Dear Canada, This Canada of ours!
~~ J.D. Edgar (1841-1899)
from This Canada of Ours, and other poems, 1893
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