MIDSUMMER.

The red blood clings in her cheeks and stings

Through their tan with a fever that lightens,

And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs

In her dark eyes dusks and brightens.

And her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings

With the youths in the sinewy games,

When the hot air sings thro’ the hair it flings,

And the circus roars hoarse with their names,

As they fly to the goal that flames.

A voice as deep as wan waters that sweep

Thro’ the musical reeds of a river;

A song of red reapers that bind and reap,

With the ring of curved scythes that quiver.

The note-like lisp of the pippins that leap,

Ripe-mellowed to gold, to the ground;

The murmurous sleep that the cool leaves keep

On close lips that trickle with sound.

And sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,

And her smiles as wide heavens are gracious;

And the creating might of her hands of heat

As a god's or a goddess's spacious.

The elastic veins thro’ her heart that beat

Are rich with a perishless fire,

And her bosoms most sweet are the ardent seat

Of a mother that never will tire.

Wherever she fares her soft voice bears

High powers of being that thicken

In fruits, as the winds made Thessalian mares

Of old mysteriously quicken;

The apricots’ juice and the juice of the pears,

The wine great grape-clusters hold,

These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares

In her corn's vast billows of gold.

All hail to her lips, and her fruitful hips,

And her motherly thickness of tresses;

All hail to the sweetness that slips and drips

From her breasts which the light caresses.

A toiler, whose fair arm heaps and whips

Great chariots that heavily creak;

A worker, who sweats on the groaning ships.

And never grows weary or weak.