What can they want of a midsummer verse,
In the flush of the midsummer splendor?
For the Empress of Ind shall I pull out my purse
And offer a penny to lend her?
Who cares for a song when the birds are a-wing,
Or a fancy of words when the least little thing
Hath message so wondrous and tender?
The trees are all plumed with their leafage superb,
And the rose and the lily are budding;
And wild, happy life, without hindrance or curb,
Through the woodland is creeping and scudding;
The clover is purple, the air is like mead,
With odor escaped from the opulent weed
And over the pasture-sides flooding.
Every note is a tune, every breath is a boon;
'Tis poem enough to be living;
Why fumble for phrase while magnificent June
Her matchless recital is giving?
Why not to the music and picturing come,
And just with the manifest marvel sit dumb
In silenced delight of receiving?
Ah, listen! because the great Word of the Lord
That was born in the world to begin it,
Makes answering word in ourselves to accord,
And was put there on purpose to win it.
And the fulness would smother us, only for this:
We can cry to each other, "How lovely it is!
And how blessed it is to be in it!"