204 THE SHIP OF THE SUMMER-TIME.
Ah me ! the childish angel
Who beckons as I write ! Perchance I should not know him
In mystic robe of white ; . He wears a school-boy s jacket,
And cap and boots to me, As when we talked at twilight,
His head against my knee.
There are dear mother-angels
We each perchance know one Whose robes of better glory
Are daily being spun With loving hands to guide us*,
With loving speech to cheer. Said I not well, earth-angels
Walk daily with us here !
��THE SHIP OF THE SUMMER-TIME.
OFAIR, blooming summer ! I watch for you still ; I wait till the hours shall your cloud-shallop fill, And, freighted with flowers and singing-birds sweet, You float over coming days close to my feet.
New leaves in the forest, new buds on the bough, New grain foaming up from the track of the plough ; New blooms in the garden, new nests in the tree ; Ah ! everything s new every summer but me.
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