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They Come! The Merry Summer Months.
They come! the merry summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers;
They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.
Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside,
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.
The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously,
It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee:
And mark how with thine own thin locks,—they now are silvery grey,—
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!"
