Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/376

 And here the lady, born in wind and rain,

Comes oft to moan and clap her palms with pain.

This is our wild-faced July, in whose breast

Is never faultless light or perfect rest.

the range, by every scarred black fell,

Strong Winter blows his horn of wild farewell;

And in the glens, where yet there moves no wing,

A slow, sweet voice is singing of the Spring.

Yea, where the bright, quick woodland torrents run,

A music trembles under rain and sun.

The lips that breathe it are the lips of her

At whose dear touch the wan world's pulses stir—

The nymph who sets the bow of promise high

And fills with warm life-light the bleak grey sky.

She is the fair-haired August. Ere she leaves

She brings the woodbine blossom round the eaves;

And where the bitter barbs of frost have been

She makes a beauty with her gold and green;

And, while a sea-song floats from bay and beach,

She sheds a mist of blossoms on the peach.

fountains sing and many waters meet,

October comes with blossom-trammelled feet.

She sheds green glory by the wayside rills

And clothes with grace the haughty-featured hills.

This is the queen of all the year. She brings

The pure chief beauty of our southern springs.

Fair lady of the yellow hair! Her breath

Starts flowers to life, and shames the storm to death;

Through tender nights and days of generous sun

By prospering woods her clear strong torrents run;

In far deep forests, where all life is mute,

Of leaf and bough she makes a touching lute.

Her life is lovely. Stream, and wind, and bird

Have seen her face—her marvellous voice have heard;

And, in strange tracts of wildwood, all day long,

They tell the story in surpassing song.