O summer, with thy magic gift of flowers And soft bird voices, musicking the breeze, While yet thy roses stir the lazy air My soul wings back thro' centuries, as hours.
It journeys till it 'lights within a court Where roses riot o'er veined-marble walls, Where peacocks strut along the broad white steps, Or over broideries by fair hands wrought.
Within the palace, divanned, rests a king, Who watches listlessly the fountain's jet; And at his feet the poet Saadi stands And hears intent th' captured bulbuls sing.
A slave with soul on freedom bent he stands, His eyes ablaze with restless ecstasy, While all around him breathes magnificence Of power imperial over many lands.
Within his slender hand he holds a rose; Raising his head, he murmurs, "_Mighty King! Do good unto thy servant while thou canst: Thou may'st not always mitigate his woes._
"_Like to this fleeting glory, carmined deep, The season of thy power is transient: Do good, whilst yet thou canst--'before thine eyes Close in thy last, forgetting, silent sleep._"
O blood-red rose! Thy petals bring to me The sunlit beauty of the Persian Court, The voice of Saadi, pleading with the king His freedom granted on thy crimson plea.
When the factories all are silenced, And night brings her balm of sleep, What are your last dear waking thoughts Ere you drift into slumber deep?
Why, Darling Mine! they are all of work, As your mind reviews the day: Of the men you meet, of progress made, Of struggles to make your way.
But I--when I nestle among the sheets, Ere sleep my tired eyes woo, Just count and repeat the loving words That have fall'n to-day from you!
Listen to the infant breeze, Clutching at the nippled trees, Where our yellow flowers are blowing, Where the rivulet is flowing.
Over all the blue-cupped sky Silver brooding clouds swim by; See! The firstling swallow flying, Later, owlets will be crying.
Come and mark the painter sun Daub the earth with golden fun; Hear the larches' fingers snapping, As if goblin hands were clapping.
Smell the rain-sweet, thymy earth, Feel the wonder of rebirth! Far away a cuckoo's calling, Notes that sound like twin bells falling.
Then a clearer voice replies To his echo ere it dies, And the blackbirds' voices mingle With th' Eistedfodd in the dingle.