Small, shapeless drifts of
Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky,
With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright,
By the late sun caressed; slight hazes
All things afar; shineth each leaf
With its own warmth and light.
O'erblown by Southland airs,
The summer landscape basks in utter peace:
In lazy streams the lazy clouds are seen;
Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut
Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze,
With shifting shade and sheen.
Hark! and you may not hearA sound less soothing than the rustle
Of swaying leaves, the steady wiry
Of unseen crickets, sudden chirpings
Of happy birds, the tinkle of the pool,
Chafed by a single stone.
What vague, delicious dreams,
Born of this golden hour of afternoon,
And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss,
Transpierced like yonder clouds with lustrous gleams,
Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them,
Of gilded nothingness!
All things are well with her.'T is good to be alive, to see the
That plays upon the grass, to feel (and
With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes
Among the garden roses, red and white,
With whiffs of fragrancy.
There is no troublous thought,
No painful memory, no grave regret,
To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour:
The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without,
Forgetting grief as sunset skies
The morning's transient shower.
