CCLXVI A Summer Reminiscence
I hear no more the locust beat
His shrill loud drum through all the day;
I miss the mingled odours sweet
Of clover and of scented hay.
No more I hear the smothered song 5
From hedges guarded thick with thorn:
The days grow brief, the nights are long,
The light comes like a ghost at morn.
I sit before my fire alone,
And idly dream of all the past: 10
I think of moments that are flown—
Alas! they were too sweet to last.
The warmth that filled the languid noons—
The purple waves of trembling haze—
The liquid light of silver moons— 15
The summer sunset’s golden blaze.
I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,
I hear them murmur through the rye,
I see the milky clouds that seek
Some nameless harbour in the sky. 20
The stile beside the spreading pine,
The pleasant fields beyond the grove,
The lawn where, underneath the vine,
She sang the song I used to love.
The path along the windy beach, 25
That leaves the shadowy linden tree,
And goes by sandy capes that reach
Their shining arms to clasp the sea.
I view them all, I tread once more
In meadow-grasses cool and deep; 30
I walk beside the sounding shore,
I climb again the wooded steep.
Oh, happy hours of pure delight!
Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!
Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright— 35
Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!
And that whereon I saw her first,
While angling in the noisy brook,
When through the tangled wood she burst;
In one small hand a glove and book, 40
As with the other, dimpled, white,
She held the slender boughs aside,
While through the leaves the yellow light
Like golden water seemed to glide,
And broke in ripples on her neck, 45
And played like fire around her hat,
And slid adown her form to fleck
The moss-grown rock on which I sat.
She standing rapt in sweet surprise,
And seeming doubtful if to turn; 50
Her novel, as I raised my eyes,
Dropped down amid the tall green fern.
This day and that—the one so bright,
The other like a thing forlorn;
To-morrow, and the early light 55
Will shine upon her marriage morn.
For when the mellow autumn flushed
The thickets where the chestnut fell,
And in the vales the maple blushed,
Another came who knew her well, 60
Who sat with her below the pine,
And with her through the meadow moved,
And underneath the purpling vine
She sang to him the song I loved.
Nathaniel G. Shepherd.