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Thoams Smith
1
Oh, little rose tree, bloom!
Summer is nearly over.
The dahlias bleed, and the phlox is seed.
Nothing’s left of the clover.
And the path of the poppy no one knows.
I would blossom if I were a rose.
Summer, for all your guile,
Will brown in a week to Autumn,
And launched leaves throw a shadow below
Over the brook’s clear bottom,—
And the chariest bud the year can boast
Be brought to bloom by the chastening frost.
2
Beat me a crown of bluer metal;
Fret it with stones of a foreign style:
The heart grows weary after a little
Of what it loved for a little while.
Weave me a robe of richer fibre;
Pattern its web with a rare device:
Give away to the child of a neighbour
This gold gown I was glad in twice.
But buy me a singer to sing one song—
Song about nothing—song about sheep—
Over and over, all day long;
Patch me again my thread-bare sleep.
3
Rain comes down
And hushes the town.
And where is the voice that I heard crying?
Snow settles
Over the nettles.
Where is the voice that I heard crying?
Sand at last
On the drifting mast.
And where is the voice that I heard crying?
Earth now
On the busy brow.
And where is the voice that I heard crying?