Midsummer.

—William Roscoe Thayer.

—A Song.

O TO lie in the ripening grass
That gracefully bends to the winds that pass,
And to look aloft, the oak-leaves through,
Into the sky so deep, so blue!

O to feel as utterly free
As the oriole swinging above on the tree,
Or the locusts piping their drowsy whirr,
Or the down that sails from the thistle-burr!

O to float with the cloudy drifts,
Changing hue as the sunlight shifts,
Or hastening gaily into the West
To follow the blushing sun to rest!

O for the secret of Nature’s power
To drain the joy of the present hour!
O to work and glow in the sun!
O to sleep, when the day is done!

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