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Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire;
Ripened with fire;
With new desire.
Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame and free-livers;
In the deep rivers;
Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)
COME walk with me along this willowed lane,
Where, like lost coinage from some miser's store,
The golden dandelions more and more Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again! For this is May! who with a daisy chain
Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o'er
Long winter's trance. No longer rise and roar His forest-wrenching blasts. The hopeful swain, Along the furrow, sings behind his team;
Loud pipes the redbreast-troubadour of spring,
And vocal all the morning copses ring; More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam;
And the glad earth, caressed by murmuring showers, Wakes like a bride, to deck herself with flowers!
Henry Sylvester Cornwell (1831-1886)
A SPRING LILT
THROUGH the silver mist
Of the blossom-spray
To their joyous lay!
“June! June! June!”
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Scent the dewy way.
Waiting for the May.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May,-
To the summer's day.
Longing for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May,-
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May,
Glide the streams away.
Throbbing for the May.
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May:
Life still ebbs away;
Denis Florence MacCarthy (1817-1882]
AROUND this lovely valley rise
O, softly on yon banks of haze,
Becalmed along the azure sky,
Through all the long midsummer-day
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,
I watch the mowers, as they go
The butterfly and humblebee
As silently, as tenderly,
The holy silence is His Voice:
John Townsend Trowbridge (1827
A MIDSUMMER SONG
O, FATHER's gone to market-town, he was up before the
day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the
mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will:
"Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?”
From all the misty morning air there comes a summer
soundA murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo, And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:
“Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?"
Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and
boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.
But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?
How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its
clatter! The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the
matter. O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the
Richard Watson Gilder (1844-1909)