Ah, no! the moral will not strain;
     Another sense will make it range,
     Another mate will soothe its pain,
     Another season work a change.

     But thro’ the live-long summer, tried,
     A pure devotion we may see;
     The ebb and flow of Nature’s tide;
     A self-forgetful sympathy.

     July

     I

     Blue July, bright July,
     Month of storms and gorgeous blue;
     Violet lightnings o’er thy sky,
     Heavy falls of drenching dew;
     Summer crown! o’er glen and glade
     Shrinking hyacinths in their shade;
     I welcome thee with all thy pride,
     I love thee like an Eastern bride. 
     Though all the singing days are done
     As in those climes that clasp the sun;
     Though the cuckoo in his throat
     Leaves to the dove his last twin note;
     Come to me with thy lustrous eye,
     Golden-dawning oriently,
     Come with all thy shining blooms,
     Thy rich red rose and rolling glooms. 
     Though the cuckoo doth but sing ‘cuk, cuk,’
     And the dove alone doth coo;
     Though the cushat spins her coo-r-roo, r-r-roo —
     To the cuckoo’s halting ‘cuk.’

     II

     Sweet July, warm July! 
     Month when mosses near the stream,
     Soft green mosses thick and shy,
     Are a rapture and a dream. 
     Summer Queen! whose foot the fern
     Fades beneath while chestnuts burn;
     I welcome thee with thy fierce love,
     Gloom below and gleam above. 
     Though all the forest trees hang dumb,
     With dense leafiness o’ercome;
     Though the nightingale and thrush,
     Pipe not from the bough or bush;
     Come to me with thy lustrous eye,
     Azure-melting westerly,
     The raptures of thy face unfold,
     And welcome in thy robes of gold! 
     Tho’ the nightingale broods—­’sweet-chuck-sweet’ —
     And the ouzel flutes so chill,
     Tho’ the throstle gives but one shrilly trill
     To the nightingale’s ‘sweet-sweet.’

     Song

     I would I were the drop of rain
     That falls into the dancing rill,
     For I should seek the river then,
     And roll below the wooded hill,
     Until I reached the sea.

     And O, to be the river swift
     That wrestles with the wilful tide,
     And fling the briny weeds aside
     That o’er the foamy billows drift,
     Until I came to thee!

     I would that after weary strife,
     And storm beneath the piping wind,
     The current of my true fresh life
     Might come unmingled, unimbrined,
     To where thou floatest free.

     Might find thee in some amber clime,
     Where sunlight dazzles on the sail,
     And dreaming of our plighted vale
     Might seal the dream, and bless the time,
     With maiden kisses three.