Summer Noontide

The slender snail clings to the leaf, Gray on its silvered underside; And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with brief Bright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf, Her warm hands berry-dyed, Comes down the tanned Noontide. The pungent fragrance of the mint And pennyroyal drench her gown, That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tint Among the thorns, and everywhere the glint Of gold and white and brown Her flowery steps waft down. The leaves, like hands with emerald veined, Along her way try their wild best To reach the jewel whose hot hue was drained From some rich rose that all the June contained The butterfly, soft pressed Upon her sunny breast. Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom, She hangs upon the hillside brake, Smelling of warmth and of her breast's perfume, And, lying in the citron-colored gloom Beside the lilied lake, She stares the buds awake. Or, with a smile, through watery deeps She leads the oaring turtle's legs; Or guides the crimson fish, that swims and sleeps From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps; And to its nest's green eggs The bird that pleads and begs. Then 'mid the fields of unmown hay She shows the bees where sweets are found; And points the butterflies, at airy play, And dragonflies, along the water-way, Where honeyed flowers abound For them to flicker 'round. Or, where ripe apples pelt with gold Some barn around which, coned with snow, The wild-potato blooms she mount its old Mossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed Lets her long glances glow Into the loft below. To show the mud-wasp at its cell Slenderly busy; swallows, too, Packing against a beam their nest's clay shell; And crouching in the dark the owl as well With all her downy crew Of owlets gray of hue. These are her joys, and until dusk Lounging she walks where reapers reap, From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk, Rustling the corn within its silken husk, And driving down heav'n's deep White herds of clouds like sheep.