We suck the bloom of the eglantine,—­
  Of the pointed thistle and brier;
And follow the track of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth, supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
  And reach for a state still higher.

As each, on the good of the others bent,
  Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening with hearts content,—­
That Winter may find us without lament
For a Summer that’s gone, with its hours misspent,
  And a harvest that’s past recall!

=The Summer is Come=

CHILDHOOD’S RURAL SONG.

  The Summer is come
  With the insect’s hum,
And the birds that merrily sing. 
  And sweet are the hours,
  And the fruits and flowers,
That Summer has come to bring.

  All nature is glad,
  And the earth is clad
In her brightest and best array: 
  So, we with delight
  Will our songs unite,
Our tribute of joy to pay.

  The swallow is out,
  And she sails about
In air, for the careless fly: 
  Then she takes a sip
  With her horny lip
As she skims where the waters lie.

  And the lamb bounds light
  In his fleece of white,
But he doesn’t know what to think,
  In the streamlet clear,
  Where he sees appear
His face as he stoops to drink.

  For, never before
  Has he gambolled o’er
The summer-dressed, flowery earth;
  And he skips in play,
  As he fain would say
“’Tis a season of feast and mirth.”

  And we have to-day
  Been rambling away
To gather the flowers most fair,
  Which we sat beneath
  An old oak to wreath
While fanned by the balmy air.

  Now the sun goes down
  Like a golden crown
That’s sliding behind a hill;
  So we dance the while
  To his farewell smile;
And well dance as the dews distil.

  Then, we’ll dance to-night
  While the fire-fly’s light
Is sparkling among the grass;
  And we’ll step our tune
  To the silver moon,
As over the green we pass.

  O, Summer is sweet! 
  But her joys are fleet;
We catch them but on the wing: 
  Yet never the less
  Would our hearts confess
The blessings she comes to bring.

=The Morning-Glory=

Come here and sit thee down by me! 
I’ve read a tale, I’ll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
  Though simple is the story. 
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour—­
  An airy Morning-Glory.

’Tis common parlance names it thus;
But ’twas a gay convolvulus: 
Yet we’ll not stop to here discuss
  Its species or its genus. 
We’ll just suppose a blooming vine
With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
  And form a bower, between us.

And we’ll suppose a happy boy,
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
  His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
  The growing floral treasure.