" One rich hollyhock warden 

 High in the midsummer garden/* 



GEORGE E. WOODBERRY. 



JULY 



T?AST the Summer is hurrying away, yet she hides with 

 -* almost her first sweetness in many spots, especially 



In English Summer lanes, the loveland of the breeze, 



Where golden sun-shafts and the silver rains 

 Fall on the wild-rose stars, thro' full-leafed, arching trees ; 

 In English Summer lanes. 



Bird-haunted, too, for hear their varying strains 



From tree-crest, mossy bole, a lane of melodies. 

 Oh dear, indeed, these feathered choirs' refrains. 



Ah, could this beauty stay ! but Summer surely flees 



With all its sweet delights to other plains, 

 To give them of her joys nor stays for all our pleas 

 In English Summer lanes. 



The richest odour of flowers is on the air to-day in the 

 wild-rose lanes : it is the scent of the overblown lime. Over 

 the fields is wafted the perfume of the hay, and the sound 

 of scythes is heard. Yonder, over the field of tall-growing, 

 poppy-gemmed wheat, a seemingly never-ending song from 

 the lark sends its 



" Wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky." 



In this fast-flying Summer month, sweet indeed are 



" Garden sights and sounds, since intermits 

 Never the turtle's coo, nor stays nor stints 

 The rose her smell." 



Richard JefFeries has written nothing better than "The 



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