A rhythm of reapers; a flashing
Of steels in the meadows; a lashing
Of sheaves in the wheatlands; a glitter
Of grain-builded streets, and a twitter
Of birds in a motionless sky,—
And that is July!
A rustle of corn-leaves; a tinkle
Of bells on the hills; a twinkle
Of sheep in the lowlands; a bevy
Of bees where the clover is heavy;
A butterfly blundering by,—
And that is July!
NIGHT
A moon-flooded prairie; a straying
Of light-hearted lovers; a baying
Of far away watchdogs; a dreaming
Of brown-fisted farmers; a gleaming
Of fireflies eddying nigh,—
And that is July!
A babble of brooks that deliver
Their flower-purpled waves to the river;
A moan in the marshes; in thickets
A dolorous droning of crickets,
Attuned to a whippoorwill's cry,—
And that is July!
~~
James Newton Matthews (1852-1910)
from The Lute of Life, 1911
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
George Stubbs (1724-1806), Reapers, 1785. Courtesy Wikimedia Commons.
One feather is a bird,
I claim; one tree, a wood;
In her low voice I heard
More than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.
And yet I roamed out where
Those notes went, like the bird,
Whose thin song hung in air,
Diminished, yet still heard:
I lived with open sound,
Aloft, and on the ground.
That ghost was my own choice,
The shy cerulean bird;
It sang with her true voice,
And it was I who heard
A slight voice reply;
I heard; and only I.
Desire exults the ear:
Bird, girl, and ghostly tree,
The earth, the solid air –
Their slow song sang in me;
The long noon pulsed away,
Like any summer day.
~~
Theodore Roethke (1908-1963)
from Words for the Wind, 1957
All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children’s feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth’s wet breast. But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love.
~~ Claude McKay (1889-1948) from Harlem Shadows, 1922
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada the United States, and the European Union]
I saw thee once — once only — years ago:
I must not say how many — but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe —
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death —
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd—alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight —
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me—(O Heaven!— O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)—
Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked —
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All — all expired save thee — save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes —
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them — they were the world to me.
I saw but them — saw only them for hours —
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep —
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go — they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me — they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers — yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle —
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven — the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still — two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
~~ Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), 1848 from Works, 1850
Between the rows of yellowing corn
Our patient donkeys paced along,
All in the glorious summer morn, At Cedros.
Afar we saw the glimmering shine
Of league on league of sparkling brine,
We breathed an ether rare and fine, At Cedros.
A laughing troop of golden hours
Strewed all our sunny path with flowers:
The blackbird's song dropped down in showers, At Cedros,
And, catching up the gladsome strain,
We sang, each answering each again,
And gayly shook the bridal rein, At Cedros.
That day can never come again,
Yet still I feel the tender pain
That thrilled my heart with that refrain, At Cedros.
I see the sapphire sea and sky,
The yellowing fields before me lie,
I hear the joyous melody, At Cedros.
Oh, happy hour! Oh, joyous time!
When life was in its summer prime,
And seemed a thing almost sublime, At Cedros.
The future comes with joy or pain,
But never shall we three again
Ride through the fields of golden grain,
Singing that sad and sweet refrain, At Cedros.
~~ Jane G. Austin (1831-1894) fromThrough the Year with the Poets: July, 1886
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Angrense, Alagoa Bay, Cedros, Flores, Azores, 2007. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.
We ran free, among the trees
Out to the open fields
Dandelions, fences too
We crossed without a trip
A flying leap, a landing splash
In the stream like wilding fish
The hill was high enough
And we, just fast enough
To dare each other's wish
At first a longer jump or two
But then because of dreams
Of things we couldn't hold,
Things that fade like morning mist;
Hand in hand, away we flew
Above the doubts and thrilled
To fears of what we knew
Could not be real, or ever last
When time would tell, and bring
The past, back to the dreams
Of things we held between
Our tightly, trusting hands
And we would feel the earth
Again, beneath our tiring feet
Where streams run wide and fences
Crossed, are slow climbed back again
When dandelions in the dusk
Fold up their daytime wear
Dark trees begin their silent
Call, to stars somewhere, so near . . .
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 (1889-1952)
from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
MissLunaRose12, Art by an autistic 11-year-old depicting people lighting sparklers.
Canadians! raise aloft your country’s flag,
Nor low to earth, nor lifeless see it drag.
Up! till each sign in gentle winds unread,
Meets breezes strong, and every fold is spread. Its place is high, above the feeble gust
That dims its color with a servile dust.
Among the storms, there see it proudly move
The emblem of your country and your love —
Where all its noble length becomes unfurled
By winds that shake the proudest of the world.
Then will the nations read upon its face,
Whatever, once, their country and their race, One hope and one ambition closely tie
This people to a common destiny.
A bond of kindred makes your pulses beat,
Frank, Saxon, Kelt, with triple force and heat;
Your veins no longer separate currents run,
Your hearts now animate and beat as one.
Oh noble land and nation! growing strong,
One sky and flag is yours, whatever tongue.
To hold and crown your rampart and your hall
With zeal and valour, needs the strength of all.
My countrymen, your fathers’ valiant swords,
Their kings’ decrees, their sages’ golden words, The world through cycles down have ruled and led —
A rich inheritance comes from the dead.
Their wisdom and their light are for your hand,
Blessed with the rule of this most fruitful land.
Thick years will come, sprung from the seed you sow;
And for those harvest-days that quickly flow,
The nation walks a-field casting the seed
Of worth and power, the future’s urgent need.
The sun of progress shines; and day full blest
And loud with labor from the east and west,
Hangs over you. Across the western sea,
Mankind new-born obeyed its destiny, Wandering westward like a current’s trend;
In Canada the roadway hath its end.
The marching centuries of tribe and race
Around the earth, on this find halting-place.
Toward either coast the ocean currents glide;
Upon their waves your sailors homeward ride.
No mimic ships are yours, the keels are deep;
Your sons are brave when angry waters leap.
A man is this whose axe doth clear the ground;
And where he smites the forest tumbles round.
This is a warrior, the first to bleed,
The foremost in the rank of noble deed.
At helm, with axe, before the foemen’s guns,
You live and die your fathers’ worthy sons.
Proud of your flag, see! how your praises swing
It straight and clear, to nations heralding.
~~
John Frederic Herbin (1860-1923)
from Canada, and other poems, 1891
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
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