Poems (Chandler)/A Summer's Growth
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AIR was the flower which proffers now its fruit:—
The bud began to swell 'neath Spring's soft dew,
And tenderly the winds of Summer blew
To foster it, and great, strong suns were mute
As through its veins warm life began to shoot
And it put on, each day, some beauty new;
And all the fairer, as I think, it grew
Because the streams were tears about its root.
But now our fruit hangs well within our reach,
And this indeed is time for gathering;
It hath the bloom of summer-tinted peach,
Each charm it hath that any man could sing,—
Yet we who taste it whisper, each to each,—
"Not sweet but very bitter is this thing!"
A SUMMER'S GROWTH.
AIR was the flower which proffers now its fruit:—The bud began to swell 'neath Spring's soft dew,
And tenderly the winds of Summer blew
To foster it, and great, strong suns were mute
As through its veins warm life began to shoot
And it put on, each day, some beauty new;
And all the fairer, as I think, it grew
Because the streams were tears about its root.
But now our fruit hangs well within our reach,
And this indeed is time for gathering;
It hath the bloom of summer-tinted peach,
Each charm it hath that any man could sing,—
Yet we who taste it whisper, each to each,—
"Not sweet but very bitter is this thing!"