SPIK'D reed and golden Iris bending over
Low-running streams, and that small pleading flower
We none of us forget, with foxgloves rang'd
In rows of crimson bells, and many more
From hedge and coppice and flat marshes, make
My glad mind wander forth where they were born,
When the dim dawn awoke with summer songs,
And June with glory crown'd proclaim'd the morn.
With glory crown'd! oh month of wealth untold!
From the high moorland sweeps the scented breeze,
Gorse spreads a golden pavement under heaven;
No stars can pierce the woven forest-trees
When night again hath lit her silver lamp,--
Brooding above the homes of sleeping men
And wide-spread plains of God, who sleepeth not,
Till all the dykes are lustrous once again.

Murmur, slow streams, and sway within the wind,
Spik'd reed and golden Iris, while the day
Breaks red upon the plain, the moon grows dim,
And all the piled clouds are roll'd away.