July—for you the songs are sung
By birds the leafy trees among;
With merry carolings they wake
The meadows at the morning's break,
And through the day the lisping breeze
Is woven with their treetop glees.
For you, the prattling, pebbly brooks
Are full of tales like story-books.
For you a fragrant incense burns
Within the garden's blossom-urns,
Which tempt the bees to hasten home
With honey for their honeycomb.
The river, like a lookingglass,
Reflects the fleecy clouds that pass,
Until it makes us almost doubt
If earth and sky aren't changed about.
July—for you, in silence deep,
The world seems fallen fast asleep;
Save on one glorious holiday,
When all our books we put away,
And every little maid and man
Is proud to be American!
Poems
JULY
From the July 1887 issue of The Christian Science Journal
St. Nicholas.
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