Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.
Blue morning and the beloved, The hill-garden and I ...
Blue morning and the beloved, Leaning, laughing and plucking, Plucking wet roses ...
(She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink, Song, sun, And still morning air.)
I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue And held it, A blossom against the sky ...
And heaven opened out In one small flower-face ...
And the beloved, Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses, Lifted her face With eyes of china-blue.
(She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird: Light, dew, And laughter of my love.)
It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze; And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles "I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!"
So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazing At clusters of delphiniums--the seed was small and brown, But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing Colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.
And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells--
And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon The blackbirds--and the blackguards--that keep robbing me of pie; For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden And what is half so lovely as my garden in July?
"MID-SUMMER BLOOMS WITHIN OUR QUIET GARDEN-WAYS"
Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways; A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays; Gay flower petals strew --Pearl, emerald and blue-- The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass; The pools are clear as glass Between the white cups of the lily-flowers; The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers; A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose, Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws, And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees Over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please.