36 
SUM M E R. 
They may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest, 
And birds sing by thousands on every green tree ; 
They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest,— 
But the summer s the season that's dearest to me ! 
For the brightness of sunshine ; the depth of the shadows; 
The crystal of waters ; the fullness of green; 
And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows 
In the glory of summer can only be seen. 
Oh the joy of the greenwood! I love to be in it, 
And list to the hum of the never-still bees; 
And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, 
Calling unto her young 'mong the leaves of the trees! 
To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither. 
And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth, 
And the thousand small lives that the warm summer weather 
Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth! 
Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven 
Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the h’ght. 
While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven, 
Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white! 
Oh the beautiful flowers, all colours combining. 
The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignonette. 
And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining, 
As if grains of gold in its petals were set! 
Yes, the summer,—the radiant summer’s the fairest. 
For greenwoods and mountains, for meadows and bowers. 
For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, 
And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers ! 
Mary Howitt. 
