A
SUMMER'S
DAY
.
THE
dark-blue
clouds
of
night
,
in
dusky
lines
Drawn
wide
and
streaky
o'er
the
purer
sky
,
Wear
faintly
morning
purple
on
their
skirts
.
The
stars
that
full
and
bright
shone
in
the
west
,
But
dimly
twinkle
to
the
stedfast
eye
,
And
seen
and
vanishing
and
seen
again
,
Like
dying
tapers
winking
in
the
socket
,
Are
by
degrees
shut
from
the
face
of
heaven
;
The
fitful
lightning
of
the
summer
cloud
,
And
every
lesser
flame
that
shone
by
night
;
The
wandering
fire
that
seems
,
across
the
marsh
,
A
beaming
candle
in
a
lonely
cot
,
Cheering
the
hopes
of
the
benighted
hind
,
Till
,
swifter
than
the
very
change
of
thought
,
It
shifts
from
place
to
place
,
eludes
his
sight
,
And
makes
him
wondering
rub
his
faithless
eyes
;
The
humble
glow-worm
and
the
silver
moth
,
That
cast
a
doubtful
glimmering
o'er
the
green
,
—
All
die
away
.
For
now
the
sun
,
slow
moving
in
his
glory
,
Above
the
eastern
mountains
lifts
his
head
;
The
webs
of
dew
spread
o'er
the
hoary
lawn
,
The
smooth
,
clear
bosom
of
the
settled
pool
,
The
polished
ploughshare
on
the
distant
field
,
Catch
fire
from
him
and
dart
their
new
got
beams
Upon
the
gazing
rustic's
dazzled
sight
.
The
wakened
birds
upon
the
branches
hop
,
Peck
their
soft
down
,
and
bristle
out
their
feathers
,
Then
stretch
their
throats
and
trill
their
morning
song
,
While
dusky
crows
,
high
swinging
over
head
,
Upon
the
topmost
boughs
,
in
lordly
pride
,
Mix
their
hoarse
croaking
with
the
linnet's
note
,
Till
in
a
gathered
band
of
close
array
,
They
take
their
flight
to
seek
their
daily
food
.
The
villager
wakes
with
the
early
light
,
That
through
the
window
of
his
cot
appears
,
And
quits
his
easy
bed
;
then
o'er
the
fields
With
lengthened
active
strides
betakes
his
way
,
Bearing
his
spade
or
hoe
across
his
shoulder
,
Seen
glancing
as
he
moves
,
and
with
good
will
His
daily
work
begins
.
The
sturdy
sun-burnt
boy
drives
forth
the
cattle
,
And
,
pleased
with
power
,
bawls
to
the
lagging
kine
With
stern
authority
,
who
fain
would
stop
To
crop
the
tempting
bushes
as
they
pass
.
At
every
open
door
,
in
lawn
or
lane
,
Half
naked
children
,
half
awake
are
seen
Scratching
their
heads
and
blinking
to
the
light
,
Till
,
rousing
by
degrees
,
they
run
about
,
Roll
on
the
sward
and
in
some
sandy
nook
Dig
caves
,
and
houses
build
,
full
oft
defaced
And
oft
begun
again
,
a
daily
pastime
.
The
housewife
,
up
by
times
,
her
morning
cares
Tends
busily
;
from
tubs
of
curdled
milk
With
skilful
patience
draws
the
clear
green
whey
From
the
pressed
bosom
of
the
snowy
curd
,
While
her
brown
comely
maid
,
with
tucked-up
sleeves
And
swelling
arm
,
assists
her
.
Work
proceeds
,
Pots
smoke
,
pails
rattle
,
and
the
warm
confusion
Still
more
confused
becomes
,
till
in
the
mould
With
heavy
hands
the
well-squeezed
curd
is
placed
.
So
goes
the
morning
till
the
powerful
sun
,
High
in
the
heavens
,
sends
down
his
strengthened
beams
,
And
all
the
freshness
of
the
morn
is
fled
.
The
idle
horse
upon
the
grassy
field
Rolls
on
his
back
;
the
swain
leaves
off
his
toil
,
And
to
his
house
with
heavy
steps
returns
,
Where
on
the
board
his
ready
breakfast
placed
Looks
most
invitingly
,
and
his
good
mate
Serves
him
with
cheerful
kindness
.
Upon
the
grass
no
longer
hangs
the
dew
;
Forth
hies
the
mower
with
his
glittering
scythe
,
In
snowy
shirt
bedight
and
all
unbraced
.
He
moves
athwart
the
mead
with
sideling
bend
,
And
lays
the
grass
in
many
a
swathey
line
;
In
every
field
in
every
lawn
and
meadow
The
rousing
voice
of
industry
is
heard
;
The
hay-cock
rises
and
the
frequent
rake
Sweeps
on
the
fragrant
hay
in
heavy
wreaths
.
The
old
and
young
,
the
weak
and
strong
are
there
,
And
,
as
they
can
,
help
on
the
cheerful
work
.
The
father
jeers
his
awkward
half-grown
lad
,
Who
trails
his
tawdry
armful
o'er
the
field
,
Nor
does
he
fear
the
jeering
to
repay
.
The
village
oracle
and
simple
maid
Jest
in
their
turns
and
raise
the
ready
laugh
;
All
are
companions
in
the
general
glee
;
Authority
,
hard
favoured
,
frowns
not
there
.
Some
,
more
advanced
,
raise
up
the
lofty
rick
,
Whilst
on
its
top
doth
stand
the
parish
toast
In
loose
attire
and
swelling
ruddy
cheek
.
With
taunts
and
harmless
mockery
she
receives
The
tossed-up
heaps
from
fork
of
simple
youth
,
Who
,
staring
on
her
,
takes
his
aim
awry
,
While
half
the
load
falls
back
upon
himself
.
Loud
is
her
laugh
,
her
voice
is
heard
afar
;
The
mower
busied
on
the
distant
lawn
,
The
carter
trudging
on
his
dusty
way
,
The
shrill
sound
know
,
their
bonnets
toss
in
the
air
And
roar
across
the
field
to
catch
her
notice
:
She
waves
her
arm
to
them
,
and
shakes
her
head
,
And
then
renews
her
work
with
double
spirit
.
Thus
do
they
jest
and
laugh
away
their
toil
Till
the
bright
sun
,
now
past
his
middle
course
,
Shoots
down
his
fiercest
beams
which
none
may
brave
.
The
stoutest
arm
feels
listless
,
and
the
swart
And
brawny-shouldered
clown
begins
to
fail
.
But
to
the
weary
,
lo
—
there
comes
relief
!
A
troop
of
welcome
children
o'er
the
lawn
With
slow
and
wary
steps
approach
,
some
bear
In
baskets
oaten
cakes
or
barley
scones
,
And
gusty
cheese
and
stoups
of
milk
or
whey
.
Beneath
the
branches
of
a
spreading
tree
,
Or
by
the
shady
side
of
the
tall
rick
,
They
spread
their
homely
fare
,
and
seated
round
,
Taste
every
pleasure
that
a
feast
can
give
.
A
drowsy
indolence
now
hangs
on
all
;
Each
creature
seeks
some
place
of
rest
,
some
shelter
From
the
oppressive
heat
;
silence
prevails
;
Nor
low
nor
bark
nor
chirping
bird
are
heard
.
In
shady
nooks
the
sheep
and
kine
convene
;
Within
the
narrow
shadow
of
the
cot
The
sleepy
dog
lies
stretched
upon
his
side
,
Nor
heeds
the
footsteps
of
the
passer
by
,
Or
at
the
sound
but
raises
half
an
eye-lid
,
Then
gives
a
feeble
growl
and
sleeps
again
;
While
puss
composed
and
grave
on
threshold
stone
Sits
winking
in
the
light
.
No
sound
is
heard
but
humming
of
the
bee
,
For
she
alone
retires
not
from
her
labour
,
Nor
leaves
a
meadow
flower
unsought
for
gain
.
Heavy
and
slow
,
so
pass
the
sultry
hours
,
Till
gently
bending
on
the
ridge's
top
The
drooping
seedy
grass
begins
to
wave
,
And
the
high
branches
of
the
aspin
tree
Shiver
the
leaves
and
gentle
rustling
make
.
Cool
breathes
the
rising
breeze
,
and
with
it
wakes
The
languid
spirit
from
its
state
of
stupor
.
The
lazy
boy
springs
from
his
mossy
lair
To
chase
the
gaudy
butterfly
,
who
oft
Lights
at
his
feet
as
if
within
his
reach
,
Spreading
upon
the
ground
its
mealy
wings
,
Yet
still
eludes
his
grasp
,
and
high
in
air
Takes
many
a
circling
flight
,
tempting
his
eye
And
tiring
his
young
limbs
.
The
drowzy
dog
,
who
feels
the
kindly
air
That
passing
o'er
him
lifts
his
shaggy
ear
,
Begins
to
stretch
him
,
on
his
legs
half-raised
,
Till
fully
waked
with
bristling
cocked-up
tail
,
He
makes
the
village
echo
to
his
bark
.
But
let
us
not
forget
the
busy
maid
,
Who
by
the
side
of
the
clear
pebbly
stream
Spreads
out
her
snowy
linens
to
the
sun
,
And
sheds
with
liberal
hand
the
crystal
shower
O'er
many
a
favourite
piece
of
fair
attire
,
Revolving
in
her
mind
her
gay
appearance
,
So
nicely
tricked
,
at
some
approaching
fair
.
The
dimpling
half-checked
smile
and
muttering
lip
Her
secret
thoughts
betray
.
With
shiny
feet
,
There
,
little
active
bands
of
truant
boys
Sport
in
the
stream
and
dash
the
water
round
,
Or
try
with
wily
art
to
catch
the
trout
,
Or
with
their
fingers
grasp
the
slippery
eel
.
The
shepherd-lad
sits
singing
on
the
bank
To
while
away
the
weary
lonely
hours
,
Weaving
with
art
his
pointed
crown
of
rushes
,
A
guiltless
easy
crown
,
which
,
having
made
,
He
places
on
his
head
,
and
skips
about
,
A
chaunted
rhyme
repeats
,
or
calls
full
loud
To
some
companion
lonely
as
himself
,
Far
on
the
distant
bank
;
or
else
delighted
To
hear
the
echoed
sound
of
his
own
voice
,
Returning
answer
from
some
neighbouring
rock
,
Or
roofless
barn
,
holds
converse
with
himself
.
Now
weary
labourers
perceive
well
pleased
The
shadows
lengthen
,
and
the
oppressive
day
With
all
its
toil
fast
wearing
to
an
end
.
The
sun
,
far
in
the
west
,
with
level
beam
Gleams
on
the
cocks
of
hay
,
on
bush
or
ridge
,
And
fields
are
checkered
with
fantastic
shapes
,
Or
tree
or
shrub
or
gate
or
human
form
,
All
lengthened
out
in
antic
disproportion
Upon
the
darkened
ground
.
Their
task
is
finished
,
Their
rakes
and
scattered
garments
gathered
up
,
And
all
right
gladly
to
their
homes
return
.
The
village
,
lone
and
silent
through
the
day
,
Receiving
from
the
fields
its
merry
bands
,
Sends
forth
its
evening
sound
,
confused
but
cheerful
;
Yelping
of
curs
,
and
voices
stern
and
shrill
,
And
true-love
ballads
in
no
plaintive
strain
,
By
household
maid
at
open
window
sung
;
And
lowing
of
the
home-returning
kine
,
And
herd's
dull
droning
trump
and
tinkling
bell
,
Tied
to
the
collar
of
the
master-sheep
,
Make
no
contemptible
variety
To
ears
not
over
nice
.
With
careless
lounging
gait
the
favoured
youth
Upon
his
sweetheart's
open
window
leans
,
Diverting
her
with
joke
and
harmless
taunt
.
Close
by
the
cottage
door
with
placid
mien
,
The
old
man
sits
upon
his
seat
of
turf
.
His
staff
with
crooked
head
laid
by
his
side
,
Which
oft
some
tricky
youngling
steals
away
,
And
straddling
o'er
it
,
shews
his
horsemanship
By
raising
clouds
of
sand
;
he
smiles
thereat
,
But
seems
to
chide
him
sharply
:
His
silver
locks
upon
his
shoulders
fall
,
And
not
ungraceful
is
his
stoop
of
age
.
No
stranger
passes
him
without
regard
,
And
neighbours
stop
to
wish
him
a
good
e'en
,
And
ask
him
his
opinion
of
the
weather
.
They
fret
not
at
the
length
of
his
remarks
Upon
the
various
seasons
he
remembers
;
For
well
he
knows
the
many
divers
signs
That
do
foretell
high
winds
,
or
rain
,
or
drought
,
Or
aught
that
may
affect
the
rising
crops
.
The
silken-clad
who
courtly
breeding
boast
,
Their
own
discourse
still
sweetest
to
their
ear
,
May
at
the
old
man's
lengthened
story
fret
,
Impatiently
,
but
here
it
is
not
so
.
From
every
chimney
mounts
the
curling
smoke
,
Muddy
and
grey
,
of
the
new
evening
fire
;
On
every
window
smokes
the
family
supper
,
Set
out
to
cool
by
the
attentive
housewife
,
While
cheerful
groups
,
at
every
door
convened
,
Bawl
'cross
the
narrow
lane
the
parish
news
,
And
oft
the
bursting
laugh
disturbs
the
air
.
But
see
who
comes
to
set
them
all
agape
;
The
weary-footed
pedlar
with
his
pack
;
Stiffly
he
bends
beneath
his
bulky
load
,
Covered
with
dust
,
slip-shod
and
out
at
elbows
;
His
greasy
hat
set
backwards
on
his
head
;
His
thin
straight
hair
,
divided
on
his
brow
,
Hangs
lank
on
either
side
his
glistening
cheeks
,
And
woe-begone
yet
vacant
is
his
face
.
His
box
he
opens
and
displays
his
ware
.
Full
many
a
varied
row
of
precious
stones
Cast
forth
their
dazzling
lustre
to
the
light
,
And
ruby
rings
and
china
buttons
,
stamped
With
love
devices
,
the
desiring
maid
And
simple
youth
attract
;
while
streaming
garters
,
Of
many
colours
,
fastened
to
a
pole
,
Aloft
in
air
their
gaudy
stripes
display
,
And
from
afar
the
distant
stragglers
lure
.
The
children
leave
their
play
and
round
him
flock
;
Even
sober
,
aged
grand-dame
quits
her
seat
,
Where
by
the
door
she
twines
her
lengthened
threads
,
Her
spindle
stops
,
and
lays
her
distaff
by
,
Then
joins
with
step
sedate
the
curious
throng
.
She
praises
much
the
fashions
of
her
youth
,
And
scorns
each
useless
nonsense
of
the
day
;
Yet
not
ill-pleased
the
glossy
riband
views
,
Unrolled
and
changing
hues
with
every
fold
,
Just
measured
out
to
deck
her
grand-child's
head
.
Now
red
but
languid
the
last
beams
appear
Of
the
departed
sun
,
across
the
lawn
,
Gilding
each
sweepy
ridge
on
many
a
field
,
And
from
the
openings
of
the
distant
hills
A
level
brightness
pouring
,
sad
though
bright
;
Like
farewell
smiles
from
some
dear
friend
they
seem
,
And
only
serve
to
deepen
the
low
vale
,
And
make
the
shadows
of
the
night
more
gloomy
.
The
varied
noises
of
the
cheerful
village
By
slow
degrees
now
faintly
die
away
,
And
more
distinctly
distant
sounds
are
heard
That
gently
steal
adown
the
river's
bed
,
Or
through
the
wood
come
on
the
ruffling
breeze
.
The
white
mist
rises
from
the
meads
,
and
from
The
dappled
skirting
of
the
sober
sky
Looks
out
with
steady
gleam
the
evening
star
.
The
lover
,
skulking
in
some
neighbouring
copse
,
(
Whose
half-seen
form
,
shewn
through
the
dusky
air
Large
and
majestic
,
makes
the
traveller
start
,
And
spreads
the
story
of
a
haunted
grove
,
)
Curses
the
owl
,
whose
loud
ill-omened
hoot
With
ceaseless
spite
takes
from
his
listening
ear
The
well-known
footsteps
of
his
darling
maid
,
And
fretful
chases
from
his
face
the
night-fly
,
That
,
buzzing
round
his
head
,
doth
often
skim
With
fluttering
wings
across
his
glowing
cheek
;
For
all
but
him
in
quiet
balmy
sleep
Forget
the
toils
of
the
oppressive
day
;
Shut
is
the
door
of
every
scattered
cot
,
And
silence
dwells
within
.