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]
June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees,
Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees,
Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush,
Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.
June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red,
Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread;
Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon;
Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.
Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song,
Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along;
Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet,
And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.
~~ Edgar Guest (1881-1959) from Just Folks, 1917
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
And now the old world holds high holiday
And pranks herself in garments brave and gay;
June roses burst from folded buds of May;
The air is full of perfume and of blithe birds' lay.
Come then, my heart, let us fare forth with these,
In all this joy dull sorrow finds surcease;
My sullen lute, beneath these blooming trees
And swept by fingers of the odorous breeze,
Sure thy mute strings will wake to life to-day
And sing to June a blithesome roundelay.
From out the wood there crept a shadow still,
Before it, died the sunshine off the hill;
It swept the lute, and on its icy breath
Faltered a song, a song of Love and Death.
O dance, ye rose-crowned hours of June, Beneath the merry sun,
And dance beneath the loving moon When jocund day is done.
Bright, bright, the sunshine and the moon But bitter black the shade:
Beneath thy roses, blithesome June, Are there no dead men laid?
Dim wraiths of dead and buried Junes, Sweet dreams and hearts aglow,
Of brighter suns and sweeter moons Of hopes dead long ago?
O joyous June, heap high your flowers, You cannot hide the graves beneath;
Sing, birds, and dance, ye merry hours,
Tread with my ghosts the Dance of Death.
With one wild note of rapture or of pain
The lute-strings snapped and all was still again.
~~ Jane G. Austin (1831-1894) fromThrough the Year with the Poets: June, 1886
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
FrDr, Danse Macabre (Tallinn), 2016. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~~ Dylan Thomas (1914-1954) from Collected Poems, 1952
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]
It may have been a memory
Of something long ago
A faded scene, or passing dream
Or just a random thought
It may have been a poet's line
Wrote from a searching heart
A verse or two, that carried through
Thoughts from a long gone time
It may have been the universe
Fate written in the stars
A destiny or fantasy
A cosmic happenstance
It may have been a childhood wish
A dream of hero's fame
A school yard crush, in teenage blush
Remembered through long years
It may be that we'll never know
Or never need to know
Just how we choose, and what we lose
Or win, by fickle fate
It cannot be; it is not nearly
Midsummer yet, my eye deceives;
But, yes, it is; I see it clearly –
A bit of red among the leaves.
'Tis so with youth: her dearest pleasures
Her fragrant boughs like green leaves deck;
But yet among the green she treasures,
With equal care, some withered speck.
A roof of blue, a carpet green,
And flowers and tall trees between.
The faintest little breezes blowing,
And little tinkling streamlets flowing.
Then if you look
In some small nook,
You'll find the fairies all together
Dancing, for this is their weather!
But be careful when you go —
Lest you fright them, dancing so;
Underneath a broad green stem
One wee piper pipes for them,
Pipes a tiny fairy tune — "O a fairy month is June" —
A very fairy month is June!
~~ 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, the United States, and the European Union]
Gold on her head, and in her heart's heart, gold!
She seems to breathe a rhododendron glow
Of blossoming colour, Fra Angelico
Would love to picture — angels aureoled!
An early Summer in her smiling glance,
The virginal sap and sweetness of her June,
And calm serenity of a crescent moon,
Weaving a glamour where the young leaves dance.
She has too something of unclouded skies
Of day and night about her, blue and dark
In turn, and deep. You see it if you mark
The limpid laughing purity of her eyes.
~~ F.S. Flint (1885-1960) from In the Net of the Stars, 1909
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
A band of stars caught up her hair,
And woven of the mist of moon,
And patterned from the leaf-laced air,
Her garments spread a soft perfume
Over the shadows of my room.
But hardly had her coming stirred
My darkness with a hope like dawn,
Or had my anxious silence heard
Her faint footfall, than she was gone.
She went as though with a quick fear
Of the eternal winter here.
~~ Hazel Hall (1886-1924) from Curtains, 1921
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
When you and I in the hills went Maying, You and I in the bright May weather, The birds, that sang on the boughs together, There in the green of the woods, kept saying All that my heart was saying low, ‘I love you! love you!’ soft and low, And did you know? When you and I in the hills went Maying.
There where the brook on its rocks went winking, There by its banks where the May had led us, Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows, Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking All that my soul was thinking there, ‘I love you! love you!’ softly there And did you care? There where the brook on its rocks went winking.
Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling, Should our paths unite or our pathways sever, In the Mays to come I shall feel forever The wildflowers thinking, the wild birds telling, In words as soft as the falling dew, The love that I keep here still for you, Both deep and true, Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling.
~~ Madison Cawein (1865-1914) fromMyth and Romance, 1899
There dwells a subtle fragrance Within the woods of May, That baffles all description, Inviting us to stay.
Aroma of the spring-time, Of bursting buds it tells,
Of wild flowers bright unfolding From out their tiny cells.
The newborn leaves a tender And brilliant green display;
When come the heats of summer, It quickly flies away.
Among the trees we wander, With sense of keen delight;
We may not feel it later, Though sunshine be as bright.
Sweet Nature's resurrection From Winter's ice and snow,
Fills woods of May with beauty Beyond all else we know.
The fragrant honeysuckle, And dogwood flowers white,
Bloom here in all their glory, A vision of delight.
How natural to linger Among the woods of May,
So many wonders are there, Inviting us to stay.
Each bush and tree has treasures Of leaf, or bud, or flower;
No art is there like Nature's When she exerts her power.
A tender, new-born glory, The leaflets all display,
There dwells a subtle fragranc Around our path to-day;
It bids us pause and linger, Ere it be gone for aye.
What joy and peace and sweetness Within the woods of May!
~~ Ellwood Roberts (1846-1921) From Lyrics of Quakerism, and other poems, 1895
"What the Bird Said Early in the Year" is a later version of "Chanson d'Aventure," not published in Lewis's lifetime, that is inscribed on a memorial stone to Lewis on Addison's Walk at Magdalen College, Cambridge. The variations in the versions are discussed in "Carved in Stone: What the Bird Did Not Say Early in the Year" in The Lewis Legacy Issue 75 (Winter 1998).
"Moon of Green Leaves," so
They called you long ago,
So the Indian child at play
Spoke your name, dear Month of May.
The First of May
If I could stay up late no doubt
I'd catch the buds just bursting out;
And up from every hidden root
Would jump a tiny slender shoot;
I wonder how seeds learn the way,
They always know the very day —
The pretty, happy first of May;
If I could stay up then, no doubt
I'd catch the buds just bursting out.
May Is Pretty, May Is Mild
May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child;
Sing out, robin; spring out, flowers;
April went with all her showers,
And the world is green again;
Come out, children, to the glen,
To the meadows, to the wood,
For the earth is clean and good,
And the sky is clear and blue,
And bright May is calling you!
May is pretty. May is mild,
Dances like a happy child,
On a blessèd holiday.
Come out, children, join the 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, the United States, and the European Union]
The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
~~ Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) from Poems, 1918
I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch’d in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company:
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
~~ William Wordsworth (1770-1850), 1804 from The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900
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