A Rhyme of Summer
The daisies nodded in the grass, the buttercups were sleeping,
And just across the river sang the farmers at their reaping;
Upon the hills, so blue and far, the maple leaves were showing
Their pallid beauty in the breeze that from the sea was blowing.
A little maid came through the land with song and rippling laughter;
The buttercups made way for her, the daisies nodded after.
A strong young farmer saw her pause beside the parting river;
She drew a lily from its depth with golden heart a-quiver.
"Thou art more fair than lilies are," said he with head uplifted;
And threw a poppy, which the stream swift to the maiden drifted.
She set the flowers within her hair, — the red and white together;
A cloud grew black before the sun and rainy was the weather.
He came across the river then, this farmer, from his mowing;
He heeded not the water's depth, he cared not for its flowing.
"O love!" said he, "if gleaming sun and cloudless skies o'erlean us,
The river's barring width may roll unpassed, untried between us;
But when loud thunder fills the air, and clouds and rain come over,
I'd cross the ocean to your side, — I am no fairday lover! "
And so one noon the village bells rang out across the river,
Their music set the buttercups and daisies all a-shiver,
While some one drew a lily from the stream so blithely flowing,
And plucked a blood-red poppy that amid the wheat was growing;
"O love!" said he, "if gleaming sun and cloudless skies o'erlean us,
The river's barring width may roll unpassed, untried between us;
But when loud thunder fills the air, and clouds and rain come over,
I'd cross the ocean to your side, — I am no fairday lover! "
And so one noon the village bells rang out across the river,
Their music set the buttercups and daisies all a-shiver,
While some one drew a lily from the stream so blithely flowing,
And plucked a blood-red poppy that amid the wheat was growing;
The maiden set them in her hair — the red and white together —
With many a smile, a tear or two, and glances at the weather.
They passed beneath the chapel's shade — the farmer and the maiden —
Where arches crossed above their heads, with snowy blossoms laden,
And in that place of holy calm the binding words were spoken;
He in his heart bore out the truth, she on her hand the token.
The years went by, and some were bright and some were clouded over,
But ever stood he at her side,— he was no fair-day lover.
With many a smile, a tear or two, and glances at the weather.
They passed beneath the chapel's shade — the farmer and the maiden —
Where arches crossed above their heads, with snowy blossoms laden,
And in that place of holy calm the binding words were spoken;
He in his heart bore out the truth, she on her hand the token.
The years went by, and some were bright and some were clouded over,
But ever stood he at her side,— he was no fair-day lover.
~~
James Berry Bensel (1856-1886)
James Berry Bensel (1856-1886)
from In the King's Garden, and other poems, 1885
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