July's for Independence Day,
For flags and speeches and for play,
For hiding deep in meadow grass
And watching flying creatures pass,
For sailing boats on little seas,
Where just the smallest summer breeze
Can blow; for picking flowers any day;
July comes for flags and play.
A very pleasant month is this
To be in a country town.
The sunlight doth the foliage kiss,
Each verdant leaflet beams with bliss,
I see not one that's brown.
Fresh zephyrs fan the thrifty trees
The oaks, the elms, the willows,
The lake's face caressed by the breeze
In imitation of the seas,
Is flecked with tiny billows.
I am for the open meadows,
Open meadows full of sun,
Where the hot bee hugs the clover,
The hot breezes drop and run.
Now 'tis the time when, tall,
The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam
Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream,
In many a fragrant ball,
Blooms of the button-bush fall.
Gone are Spring's graces! mute her melodies!
Yet in their place what Summer can bestow,
Freely she yields; she tunes the river's flow
To gentlest music,—fills with sweets the breeze,—
Gives the last flush of leafage to the trees,—
Flowers to Earth's nursing bosom,—to the sky
Brightness oppressive from intensity,—
And calms, with halcyon wing, the azure seas.
Such are her spells!—yet I look back on Spring
(As middle age delights on youth to pore)
With feelings mournful, but unmurmuring.
I ever loved the bud more than the flower
And hope than full enjoyment: thence I cling
Alike to life's and nature's budding hour.
When the scarlet cardinal tells
Her dream to the dragon fly,
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,
And murmurs a lullaby,
It is July.
In idle mood, this happy day,
I let the moments drift away;
I lie among the tangled grass
And watch the crinkling billows pass
O'er seas of clover. Like a tide
That sets across the meadow wide,
The crimson-crested ripples run
From isles of shade to shores of sun;
And one white lily seems to be
A sail upon this summer sea,
Blown northward, bringing me, to-day,
A fragrant freight from far Cathay.
The sun gleams over the mountains,
And through the hazy air
It lightens the sombre hill-sides,
And meadows green and fair.
It gilds the light clouds drifting
Adown the summer sky;
There's beauty in the dawning
Of a morning in July.
