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What Makes The Summer?

It is not the lark's clear tone

Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,

Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night -

Not these alone

Make the sweet sounds of summer;

But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly

And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight -

These help to make the summer.

Not roses redly blown,

Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,

Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare -

Not these alone

Make the sweet sights of summer

But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds

And slender grasses, springing up everywhere -

These help to make the summer.

One heaven bends above;

The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;

O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,

Is the same love, it is all God's summer;

Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,

So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,

You help to make the summer.