Summer Hours

It is the year�s high noon!
The air sweet incense yields;
And, o�er the fresh, green fields,
Bends the clear sky of June.

I leave the crowded streets,
The hum of busy life,
Its clamor and its strife,
To breathe thy p�rfumed sweets.

Oh rare and golden hours!
The birds� melodious song
Wave-like is borne along
Upon a strand of flowers.

I wander far away,
Where, through the forest trees,
Sports the cool summer breeze
In wild and wanton play.

A patriarchal elm
Its stately front uprears,
Which, twice a hundred years,
Has ruled this woodland realm.

I sit beneath its shade,
And watch, with careless eye,
The brook that babbles by
And cools the leafy glade.

In truth, I wonder not,
That, in the ancient days,
The temples of God�s praise
Were grove and leafy grot.

The noblest ever planned,
With quaint device and rare,
By man, can ill compare
With this from God�s own hand.

Pilgrim with wayworn feet,
Who, treading life�s dull round,
No true repose hast found,
Come to this green retreat;�

For bird and flower and tree,
Green field and woodland wild,
Shall bear, with voices mild,
Sweet messages to thee.