SWEET and golden afternoon Of the infant summer, Joyous one! Merry trills of laughter soon Peep and tremble and embrace, Flee and turn again to race Through the sun; Morning, slow old nurse, is lost, Birds and souls and flowers are tost In the sunlit pentecost — Winter's done! Birds are chirping melodies Made of clear notes vanishing In the sky! Yonder hum the yellow bees, Hither sway the tender branches, Mad young winds in avalanches Scurry by; All the flowers bloom a-blushing, Rapture through the soul is rushing, Suddenly there comes a hushing — Night is nigh! |