SUMMER SCHEMES

When friendly summer calls again,

Calls again

Her little fifers to these hills,

We'll go — we two — to that arched fane

Of leafage where they prime their bills

Before they start to flood the plain

With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.

“— We'll go,” I sing; but who shall say

What may not chance before that day!

And we shall see the waters spring,

Waters spring

From chinks the scrubby copses crown;

And we shall trace their oncreeping

To where the cascade tumbles down

And sends the bobbing growths aswing,

And ferns not quite but almost drown.

“— We shall,” I say; but who may sing

Of what another moon will bring!