Iii

Oh days In early summer, when all things breathe With delight in being! Golden haze Covers valleys and distant heath. The wind, these times, Faints with its burden from Southern Climes Of odours, subtler than balm or myrrh. Then we stir And surge like fair seas to and fro. When through our green blades the light winds sweep, Between our thin stalks straight and tall, You may see, a-tremble, like flames that blow, The Scarlet Flowers of Sleep. Low down they grow,-- Fine as a film, Red and soft as Love’s lips glow, Red as jewels the gods let fall.