Midsummer.

—Frances Louisa Bushnell.

THE Summer floats on even wing,
Nor sails more far, nor draws more near;
Poised calm between the budding spring,
And sweet decadence of the year.

In shadowed fields the cattle stand,
The dreaming river scarcely flows,
The sky hangs cloudless o’er the land,
And nothing comes and nothing goes.

A pause of fullness set between
The sowing and the reaping time;
What is to be and what has been
Joined each to each in perfect rhyme.

So comes high noon ‘twixt morn and eve,
So comes full tide ‘twixt ebb and flow,’
Or midnight ‘twixt the day we leave
And that new day to which we go.

Full, fruitful hours by growing won,
A restful space ‘mid old and new;
When all there was to do is done,
And nothing yet there is to do.

No days like these so deeply blest,
That look nor backward nor before;
Their large fulfillment, ample rest,
Make life flow wider evermore.

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