  Summer in the world and morning, the far hills were in the mist, And we watched the river borders, how the rush and ripple kist, While the bird sang “Whither, whither,” and the wind said, “Where I list.” And we saw the yellow kingcup, and the arrowhead look through, From the silent, shallow waters, where the mirrored skies were blue, And the flags about the swan’s nest kept the secret that we knew. In the hedge a thrush was singing, where the wild hopclusters are, And the lowly ragged-robin, with its frailly fretted star, While a soft wind brought the fragrance of the meadow-sweet from far. All its blushing bells a’ ringing, on a bank the foxglove grows, Where the honeysuckle tangles in the thorns of the wild rose, And a sudden sea of blue-bells from the wood-side overflows. And we watched the silver crescent of the wings of the wild dove Circle swiftly in the sunlight through the aspen tops above, And we felt the great world’s heart beat, in the gladness of our love. |
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