The earth it was weary of winter, of the frost and the tingling snow, Of winds which blew from the icy Pole, daunting the faint sun-ray; And the pulse of life beat fainter, and the fire of hope burned low, And we yearned for thy coming, summer, and thou wert so far away.
Then the shy, cool noon shone warmer, and the shrunken veins of earth Pulsed with a quicker current which glowed in the willow’s stem, And the frozen graves were opened, and death gave place to birth, And the drowsy flowers reared their heads, and called the birds to them.
Back they came trooping blithely, the oriole and the wren, Robin and jay and hermit-thrush, to twilight-haunted grove; New nests, new music, and new hopes, in upland and in glen, And all the winter discords turned to harmonies of love.
O hearts that failed and doubted, and eyes that were blind and wet, And dared not trust the heavenly love which giveth each good thing, The Lord he never forgets his world, and he never will forget, And year by year from the graving snows he builds his blessed spring!
Tell thyself out then, summer, leave not a word unsaid, Give sun to sky, and dew to earth, and moon to silver sea; Give faith to sore and sorrowing hearts who grieve beside their dead, And tell them God can bring them back, even as he brought back thee.
WHEN all the west is red at set of sun, And cool airs waken which were hushed at noon, And crickets chirr and trill, and one by one The birds’ songs die away to sleepy croon, And each white lily on the garden walk, Dew-heavy, hangs its head upon its stalk;
When dawning soft and faint upon the blue, The vague, mysterious, dreamy blue of night, The first dim planet glimmers into view, ’Tis then it opens with a shy delight Its pale gold, wayside blossoms near and far, Holding them up to greet the evening star.
The freshness of the morning tempts it not, Nor fervid noon, nor the warm wind’s caress; It envies not the royal rose’s lot, Choosing, as background for its loveliness, The dewy shadows and the twilight lone; Making the hush of eventide its own.
The blaze and sunshine of the summer hours Know not nor prize the blooms they never see; None of the jubilant and day-lit flowers Hail it as sister, but the drowsy bee And the night-moth, just roused from his repose, They love it better than the fair, proud rose.