'I speak of one, from many singled out—
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.'—
Wordsworth

There is a lustre in the sun, a light within the sky,
I have not seen these long, long months that went so slowly by;
But I know full well what light it is, and why all things are gay,
For this is the golden summer, and the long sweet summer day.
will not work, but fling aside all thought of daily earth,
And step into the better mind as children into birth,
And shape my life to the sweet rule that all mute things obey
In the golden days of summer, in the long, sweet summer day.
I will into the meadows green, to watch each cherish'd flow'r
Springing up like love in woman when she owns its passion'd pow'r,
By the soft-lip'd streams that ever laugh in radiant jollity;
Oh, the meadow flow'rs, the summer flow'rs, are glorious things to me!
I have stood and watch'd for hours their bloom when younger years were mine,
Yet a something lay within their tints I could not all define;
But I view them now with riper faith, for I know that God above
Looks down with His large eyes on each, and their brightness is His love.
I have waited for their coming when the snow lay deep and long,
As the heart will keep up yearning for some cherish'd poet's song;
And now I leap with joy to think that all are here again,
As if angels flung them down as gifts to cheer the hearts of men.
What spirit in their pulses, and what gentle thoughts are theirs,
They will not tell to none but those that bow their worshippers;
And so sweet their magic silence, as they peep from out their bow'rs,
That I think the brightest spots above are set apart for flow'rs.
There is beauty in the long-ribb'd hills, in the valley soft and green,
In the trees that stand like sages with their shadow all between;
But a better beauty shadows all those quiet things that lie
And blush in meekness at our feet, as if loth to meet the eye.
In the balmy glow of landscape is a power that can move
All the passions to one duty, and that duty is but love;
We grow old, but this within us is a light that will not sink;
Death can only make us leap above and lift again the link.
I never saw the city but its restless tread and pain
Made me yearn to quit the tumult for the quiet fields again;
And I mutter'd, as the passion and the throb grew worse and worse—
'Man has set his fleeting dwelling here, and God His quiet curse!'
So I will unto the meadows green, and hear each mute thing preach,
Filling all my bosom with the lore a blade of grass can teach,
Lying by the streams until I steal a portion of their art,
And imprison all their laughter in a corner of my heart.
Work! what ****rd bosom slipt to-day that thought from out its clasp,
As if one hour we could not fling the muck-rake from our grasp—
Why, all the earth is full of charms like a maid on her bridal day;
And shame to him that will not join one hour her roundelay.
I care not for the riches in the coffers of the great,
Nor the line that comes through the mighty years to swell a high estate;
Give me the faith of a poet's eye, and the thoughts that spurn decay,
And the light that lies in the glorious smile of the long sweet summer day!