PRONE where maples widely spread | |
| I watch the far blue overhead, | |
| Where little fine-spun clouds arise | |
| From naught to naught before my eyes; | |
| Within the shade a pleasant rout | 5 |
| Of dallying zephyrs steal about; | |
| Lazily as moves the day | |
| Odours float and faint away | |
| From roses yellow, red, and white, | |
| That prank yon garden with delight; | 10 |
| Round which the locust blossoms swing, | |
| And some late lilacs droop for spring. | |
| Anon swells up a dubious breeze | |
| Stirring the half reluctant trees, | |
| Then, rising to a mimic gale, | 15 |
| Ruffles the massy oak to pale | |
| Till, spent its sudden force, once more | |
| The zephyrs come that went before; | |
| Now silvery poplars shivering stand, | |
| And languid lindens waver bland, | 20 |
| Hemlock traceries scarcely stir, | |
| All the pines of summer purr; | |
| Hovering butterflies I see, | |
| Full of business shoots the bee, | |
| Straight to yon valley is his flight | 25 |
| Where solemn marbles crowd so white. | |
| Half hid in the grasses there | |
| Red-breast thrushes jump and stare, | |
| Sparrows flutter up like leaves | |
| Tossed upon the wind in sheaves. | 30 |
| Curve-winged swallows slant and slide | |
| O’er the graves that stretch so wide, | |
| Steady crows go labouring by— | |
| Ha! the Rossignol is nigh! | |
| Rossignol, why will you sing | 35 |
| Though lost the lovely world of spring? | |
| ’Twas well that then your roulades rang | |
| Of joy, despite of every pang, | |
| But now the sweet, the bliss is gone— | |
| Nay, now the summer joy is on, | 40 |
| And lo, the foliage and the bloom, | |
| The fuller life the bluer room, | |
| ’Twas this the sweet spring promised me. | |
| O bird, and can you sing so free? | |
| And will you sing when summer goes | 45 |
| And leaves turn brown and dies the rose? | |
| Oh, then how brave shall autumn dress | |
| The maple out with gorgeousness! | |
| And red-cheeked apples deck the green, | |
| And corn wave tall its yellow sheen. | 50 |
| But, bird, bethink you well, I pray, | |
| Then marches winter on his way. | |
| Ah, winter—yes, ah, yes—but still | |
| Hark! sweetly chimes the summer rill, | |
| And joy is here and life is strong, | 55 |
| And love still calls upon my song. | |
| |
| No, Rossignol, sing not that strain, | |
| Triumphant ’spite of all the pain,— | |
| She cannot hear you, Rossignol, | |
| She does not pause and flush, your thrall. | 60 |
| She does not raise that slender hand | |
| And, poised lips parted, understand | |
| What you are telling of the years, | |
| Her brown eyes soft with happy tears,— | |
| She does not hear a note of all. | 65 |
| Ah, Rossignol, ah, Rossignol! | |
| But skies are blue and flowers bloom, | |
| And roses breathe the old perfume, | |
| And here the murmuring of the trees | |
| In all of lovelier mysteries;— | 70 |
| And maybe now she hears my song | |
| Pouring the summer hills along, | |
| Listens with joy that still to thee | |
| Remain the summertime and me. | |
| |
