Public Domain Poetry And Stories - Songs Of The Summer Days by George MacDonald
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Songs Of The Summer Days

    By George MacDonald



        I.

        A glory on the chamber wall!
        A glory in the brain!
        Triumphant floods of glory fall
        On heath, and wold, and plain.

        Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss;
        She has, and seeks no more;
        Forgets that days come after this,
        Forgets the days before.

        Each ripple waves a flickering fire
        Of gladness, as it runs;
        They laugh and flash, and leap and spire,
        And toss ten thousand suns.

        But hark! low, in the world within,
        One sad aeolian tone:
        "Ah! shall we ever, ever win
        A summer of our own?"


        II.

        A morn of winds and swaying trees--
        Earth's jubilance rushing out!
        The birds are fighting with the breeze;
        The waters heave about.

        White clouds are swept across the sky,
        Their shadows o'er the graves;
        Purpling the green, they float and fly
        Athwart the sunny waves.

        The long grass--an earth-rooted sea--
        Mimics the watery strife.
        To boat or horse? Wild motion we
        Shall find harmonious life.

        But whither? Roll and sweep and bend
        Suffice for Nature's part;
        But motion to an endless end
        Is needful for our heart.


        III.

        The morn awakes like brooding dove,
        With outspread wings of gray;
        Her feathery clouds close in above,
        And roof a sober day.

        No motion in the deeps of air!
        No trembling in the leaves!
        A still contentment everywhere,
        That neither laughs nor grieves!

        A film of sheeted silver gray
        Shuts in the ocean's hue;
        White-winged feluccas cleave their way
        In paths of gorgeous blue.

        Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day,
        Thy very clouds are dreams!
        Yon child is dreaming far away--
        He is not where he seems.

        IV.

        The lark is up, his faith is strong,
        He mounts the morning air;
        Lone voice of all the creature throng,
        He sings the morning prayer.

        Slow clouds from north and south appear,
        Black-based, with shining slope;
        In sullen forms their might they rear,
        And climb the vaulted cope.

        A lightning flash, a thunder boom!--
        Nor sun nor clouds are there;
        A single, all-pervading gloom
        Hangs in the heavy air.

        A weeping, wasting afternoon
        Weighs down the aspiring corn;
        Amber and red, the sunset soon
        Leads back to golden morn.



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