Summer glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and daisies Darken ’mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay- makers Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the mowing, And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the gloaming Wears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield now; Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage, Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, for windless Heaven’s blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy white valleys; Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels, melodious With the invisible joy that wakes dawn o’er the green fields of England.  Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro’ them gaily, Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of dark freckles.  Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead, Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chance coolness, But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal.  Heed him not; come, tho’ he kiss till the soft little upper-lip loses Half its pure whiteness; just speck’d where the curve of the rosy mouth reddens.

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee the sweeter.  Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a withering pallor!  City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day, Hung upon hedges of eglantine!  Thou in the freedom of nature, Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness!  Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of noontide; Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border’d by hillside and river, Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of white meadow- sweet, sweetest, Blissfully hovers—­O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the tenderest Grasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a posy.

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers are falling!  Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the long twilight:  Mute with the cares of the nest; only known by a ‘chuck, chuck,’ and dovelike Call of content, but the finch and the linnet and blackcap pipe loudly.  Round on the western hill-side warbles the rich-billed ouzel; And the shrill throstle is filling the tangled thickening copses; Singing o’er hyacinths hid, and most honey’d of flowers, white field-rose.  Joy thus to revel all day in the grass of our own beloved country; Revel all day, till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet ’tirra- lirra’:  Trilling delightfully.  See, on the river the slow-rippled surface Shining; the slow ripple broadens in circles; the bright surface smoothens; Now it is flat as the leaves of the yet unseen water-lily.  There dart the lives of a day, ever-varying tactics fantastic.  There, by the wet-mirrored osiers,