Midsummer

Here! sweep these foolish leaves away,     I will not crush my brains to-day!     Look! are the southern curtains drawn?     Fetch me a fan, and so begone!     Not that, - the palm-tree's rustling leaf     Brought from a parching coral-reef     Its breath is heated; - I would swing     The broad gray plumes, - the eagle's wing.     I hate these roses' feverish blood!     Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,     A long-stemmed lily from the lake,     Cold as a coiling water-snake.     Rain me sweet odors on the air,     And wheel me up my Indian chair,     And spread some book not overwise     Flat out before my sleepy eyes.     Who knows it not, - this dead recoil     Of weary fibres stretched with toil, -     The pulse that flutters faint and low     When Summer's seething breezes blow!     O Nature! bare thy loving breast,     And give thy child one hour of rest, -     One little hour to lie unseen     Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!     So, curtained by a singing pine,     Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,     Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay     In sweeter music dies away.