Volume Iii Part 15 (2/2)

Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May,-- Longing to escape from study To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May,-- Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May,-- Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows; Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May: Spring goes by with wasted warnings,-- Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,-- Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away; Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May!

Denis Florence MacCarthy [1817-1882]

MIDSUMMER

Around this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise.

O, softly on yon banks of haze, Her rosy face the Summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of cloudland lie, Whose sh.o.r.es, with many a s.h.i.+ning rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer-day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.

I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet,- Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers, as they go Through the tall gra.s.s, a white-sleeved row.

With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring.

Behind the nimble youngsters run, And toss the thick swaths in the sun.

The cattle graze, while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, where summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

The b.u.t.terfly and humblebee Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail, Her chickens skulk behind the rail; High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the woodp.e.c.k.e.r pecks and flits.

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats its throbbing drum.

The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house.

The oriole flashes by; and, look!

Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me.

<script>