August
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Flame-like, the long midday,
With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred
The down upon the spray,
Where nests the panting bird,
Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.
Pleasantly comest thou,
Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass;
And the curled corn-blades bow,
As the light breezes pass,
That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land.
So, to the thirsting soul,
Cometh the dew of the Almighty’s love;
And the scathed heart, made whole,
Turneth in joy above,
To where the spirit freely may expand,
And rove, untrammeled, in that “better land.”
—William D. Gallagher.