Page:The Sundering Flood - Morris - 1898.djvu/215

'Tis Summer and night,
Little dusk and long light,
Little loss and much gain
When the day must needs wane;
Little bitter, much sweet
From the weed to the wheat;
Little moan, mickle praise
Of the Midsummer days,
When the love of the sleeping sun lieth along
And broodeth the acres abiding the song.

Were the Spring to come o'er
And again as before,
What then would ye crave
From the Summer to have?
Sweeter grass would ye pray,
And more lea-lading hay?
For more wheat would ye cry,
Thicker swathe of the rye?
Stouter sons would ye ask for, and daughters more dear?
Well-willers more trusty than them ye have here?

O the wheat is yet green
But full fair beseen,
And the rye groweth tall
By the turfen wall.
Thick and sweet was the hay
On the lealand that lay;
Dear daughters had we,
Sons goodly to see,
And of all the well-willers ere trusted for true
The least have ye failed us to deal and to do.

What then is this,
That the Summer's bliss
Somewhat ye fail
In your treasure's tale?
What then have ye lost,
And what call ye the cost
Of the months of life
Since Winter's strife?