Early Summer.

The light is silent on the greeny sward, And from a bough above the wild dove's coo Steals on the ear like a dream-dewy word, Or the voice of one of a faery crew. The warmth within the azure of the hills Breathes like the picture of a perfect thing, Which some supernal artist limning has Made mystical with love's remembering. Now the faint murmur of the coming tide Grows like a spirit in the quiet cove, While with a drowsy murmur kin to it The brown bees among the sweet flowers rove. Here where the heart could fold itself, and sleep As if within a shining century, Naught seems to change but thought, and even it Makes every change a tender melody. All here is so remote from the world's care, As if it were a dream that would not fade, Amid so much that man has ruined here Like some old-world divineness that has stayed.