This one I fret the summer morning
With looming thoughts of gray
That afternoon shall carry
And cloud all blue away.
O, how beautiful it is –
Without gray there is no green ‘
This reluctant sacrifice
To keep the wild serene.
The idle leaves, on tree branch,
Are parched so ask the lark:
‘When come Mother’s sweet tears
With renewal bright and dark?’
Her sylvan ears have now heard;
She closes above Her eye
For the new fall of the year –
On the cerulean sky.
The warm air shakes the trees
And wets the fertile ground
To save withered flowers
And cool the heat unbound.
Now the wind and water
Do swirl and dance together
To caress nature’s breast
For much milder weather.
