Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/377



beats the first warm pulse of Summer—now

There shines great glory on the mountain's brow.

The face of heaven in the western sky,

When falls the sun, is filled with Deity!

And while the first light floods the lake and lea,

The morning makes a marvel of the sea;

The strong leaves sing; and in the deep green zones

Of rock-bound glens the streams have many tones;

And where the evening-coloured waters pass,

Now glides November down fair falls of grass.

She is the wonder with the golden wings,

Who lays one hand in Summer's—one in Spring's;

About her hair a sunset radiance glows;

Her mouth is sister of the dewy rose;

And all the beauty of the pure blue skies

Has lent its lustre to her soft bright eyes.

month whose face is holiness! She brings

With her the glory of majestic things.

What words of light, what high resplendent phrase

Have I for all the lustre of her days?

She comes, and carries in her shining sphere

August traditions of the world's great year;

The noble tale which lifts the human race

Has made a morning of her sacred face.

Now in the emerald home of flower and wing

Clear summer streams their sweet hosannas sing;

The winds are full of anthems, and a lute

Speaks in the listening hills when night is mute

And through dim tracks where talks the royal tree

There floats a grand hymn from the mighty sea;

And where the grey, grave, pondering mountains stand

High music lives—the place is holy land!