MIDSUMMER.
91
The greenest leaves are curling up,
The streams are running dry,
The marigold and buttercup
Arc drooping, thirsting for a sup
Of some refreshing balm, while I
Am trying hard to smother my
Anathemas, hot July!
The streams are running dry,
The marigold and buttercup
Arc drooping, thirsting for a sup
Of some refreshing balm, while I
Am trying hard to smother my
Anathemas, hot July!
The pavements arc like burning stones;
One hesitates to pass,
For fear that flesh and blood and bones,
The real wealth a person owns,
Will be transformed into a mass
Of radiance, like molten brass,
Or vapor igneous as gas.
One hesitates to pass,
For fear that flesh and blood and bones,
The real wealth a person owns,
Will be transformed into a mass
Of radiance, like molten brass,
Or vapor igneous as gas.
My neighbors all their blinds have drawn,
And closed the portal tight,
And hid the hammock from the lawn—
They hope to make me think they 've gone
Down to the sea for pure delight;
But I justk now—I have no spite—
They 're in the back yard day and night.
And closed the portal tight,
And hid the hammock from the lawn—
They hope to make me think they 've gone
Down to the sea for pure delight;
But I justk now—I have no spite—
They 're in the back yard day and night.
As milk will sour, so turneth fast
My temper (never sweet);
Uncertain 'tis how long will last
Cette métamorphose, but, when past,
My temper (never sweet);
Uncertain 'tis how long will last
Cette métamorphose, but, when past,
