Poetry Archives

Mine eyes are filled today with old amaze
 At mountains, and at meadows deftly strewn
 With bits of the gay jewelry of June
And of her splendid vesture; and, agaze,
I stand where Spring her bright brocade of days
 Embroidered o’er, and listen to the flow
 Of sudden runlets—the faint blasts they blow,
Low, on their stony bugles, in still ways.
For wonders are at one, confederate yet:
 Yea, where the wearied year came to a close,
 An odor reminiscent of the rose;
And everywhere her seal has Summer set;
 And, as of old, in the horizon-sky,
 The sun can find a lovely place to die.