"The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like a river in its flowing—
Can there be a softer sound?"
—Wordsworth.
O rare, sweet summer day,
Could'st thou not longer stay?
The soothing, whispering wind's caress
Was bliss to weary brain,
The songs of birds had power to bless
As in fair childhood's reign.
The tinted clouds were free from showers,
The sky was wondrous clear,
The precious incense of rare flowers
Made sweet the atmosphere;
The shimmering haze of mid-day hour
Was balm to restlessness,
While thought of silent hidden power
Was strength for helplessness—
O rare, sweet summer day,
Could'st thou not longer stay?
Porter Manse.