A DARK MONTH.
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And his hands are as sunny
As ruddy ripe corn
Or the browner-hued honey
From heather-bells borne.
When summer sits proudest,
Fulfilled with its mirth,
And rapture is loudest
In air and on earth,
The suns of all hours
That have ripened the roots
Bring forth not such flowers
And beget not such fruits.
And well though I know it,
As fain would I write,
Child, never a poet
Could praise you aright.
I bless you? the blessing
Were less than a jest
Too poor for expressing;
I come to be blest,
With humble and dutiful
Heart, from above:
Bless me, O my beautiful
Innocent love!
