GRAY, on the daisiest grass,
Shadows of moving leaves;
Happy the brown bees hum,
“ Summer has come — has come ; ”
Lightly the low winds pass,
Shaking the peony-sheaves.
Tulips the sun looks through
Shining and stately stand ;
Redder than rubies glow
All their great globes a-row,
Bright on the summer blue,
Lanthorns of fairy-land.
Ever and aye my own
Still shall this moment be;
I shall remember all, —
Shadows, and tulips tall,
Scent from the bean-fields blown,
Song of the humble-bee.
Lost is that fragrant hour,
Dewy and golden-lit, —
Dead — for the memory
Pitiful comes to me
Wan as a withered flower,—
Only the ghost of it.
Graham R. Tomson.