Now from remotest hiding-place
Comes every fay, comes every flower’s soul.
Lo by the brooks, how disks of moonlit lace
Veil all the waters’ hidden, sleeping face:
And from the summer’s long-forgotten store
Is given lavish dole:
June now doth scatter gold behind her and before.
The daisy, like a cherubim’s countenance
Shining, and girt with rayed and shining wings,
And melilot, slender and yellow-haired,
And light-hung grasses in their airy dance,
And flowering reed that by the river sings,
And buttercups, in web of light ensnared,
And the chaste flower-de-luce so clear in hue,
Stand all like thoughtful sprites upon the mead,
Wondering at heaven, so smiling in their view;
Nor to the autumn give they any heed.
1914.