TO MIDSUMMER DAY.
Crown of the Tear, how bright thou shinest!
How little, in thy pride, dimmest
Inevitable fall! albeit
We who stand round about fore-see it.
Shine on; shine bravely. There are near
Other bright children of the Tear,
Almost as high, and much like thee
In features and in festive glee:
Some happy to call forth the mower,
And hear his sharpen’d scythe sweep o’er
Bank after rank: then others wait
Before the grange’s open gate,
And watch the nodding wane, or watch
The fretted domes beneath the thatch,
Till young and old at once take wing
And promise to return in spring.
Yet I am sorry, I must own,
Grown of the Year! when thou art gone.