Early Summer.
Robert Crawford 1959 (Bellshill)
The light is silent on the greeny sward,
And from a bough above the wild dove's coo
Steals on the ear like a dream-dewy word,
Or the voice of one of a faery crew.
The warmth within the azure of the hills
Breathes like the picture of a perfect thing,
Which some supernal artist limning has
Made mystical with love's remembering.
Now the faint murmur of the coming tide
Grows like a spirit in the quiet cove,
While with a drowsy murmur kin to it
The brown bees among the sweet flowers rove.
Here where the heart could fold itself, and sleep
As if within a shining century,
Naught seems to change but thought, and even it
Makes every change a tender melody.
All here is so remote from the world's care,
As if it were a dream that would not fade,
Amid so much that man has ruined here
Like some old-world divineness that has stayed.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 48 sec read
- 85 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCBDEFEGHIHJKIKLMNM |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 817 |
Words | 159 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 20 |
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"Early Summer." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 12 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/30653/early-summer.>.
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