S

N the long enchanted weather,

When lovers came together,

And fields were bright with blossoming,
And hearts were light with song;

When the poet lay for hours,
In a dream among the flowers,
And heard a soft voice murmuring
His love's name all day long;

Or for hours stood beholding
The summer time unfolding

Its casket of rich jewelries,

And boundless wealth outpoured ;

Saw the precious-looking roses

Its glowing hand uncloses,

The pearls of dew and emeralds

Spread over grass and sward;

When he heard besides the singing,

Mysterious voices ringing

With clear unearthly ecstasies

Through earth and sky and air;

Then he wondered for whose pleasure
Some king made all that treasure—
That bauble of the universe,

At whose feet it was laid :

Yea, for what celestial leman,
Bright saint or crownèd demon,
Chimed all the tender harmonies
Of that rich serenade.

But his heart constrained him, sinking

Back to its sweetest thinking,

His lady all to celebrate,

And tell her beauty's worth.

And he sought at length what tender
Love-verses he should send her :

Oh, the love within him overflowed,
And seemed to fill the earth!

So he took, in his emotion,
A murmur from the ocean;
He took a plaintive whispering

Of sadness from the wind;

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IN THE LONG ENCHANTED WEATHER.

And a piteous way of sighing

From the leaves when they were dying,
And the music of the nightingales

With all his own combined;

Yea, he stole indeed some phrases
Of mystic hymns of praises,
The heaven itself is perfecting
Out of the earthly things;

And with these he did so fashion

The poem of his passion,

The lady still is listening,

And still the poet sings!

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

HEN Spring comes laughing

By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,

Sing blue of speedwell,
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,

Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,

Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,

And my Love's lips.

100

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

When Autumn scatters

The leaves again,

And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice;

Sing rounds of reapers,
And my Love's voice.