by Paul Laurence Dunbar

When summer time has come, and all

The world is in the magic thrall

Of perfumed airs that lull each sense

To fits of drowsy indolence;

When skies are deepest blue above,

And flow'rs aflush,—then most I love

To start, while early dews are damp,

And wend my way in woodland tramp

Where forests rustle, tree on tree,

And sing their silent songs to me;

Where pathways meet and pathways part,—

To walk with Nature heart by heart,

Till wearied out at last I lie

Where some sweet stream steals singing by

A mossy bank; where violets vie

In color with the summer sky,—

Or take my rod and line and hook,

And wander to some darkling brook,

Where all day long the willows dream,

And idly droop to kiss the stream,

And there to loll from morn till night—

Unheeding nibble, run, or bite—

Just for the joy of being there

And drinking in the summer air,

The summer sounds, and summer sights,

That set a restless mind to rights

When grief and pain and raging doubt

Of men and creeds have worn it out;

The birds' song and the water's drone,

The humming bee's low monotone,

The murmur of the passing breeze,

And all the sounds akin to these,

That make a man in summer time

Feel only fit for rest and rhyme.

Joy springs all radiant in my breast;

Though pauper poor, than king more blest,

The tide beats in my soul so strong

That happiness breaks forth in song,

And rings aloud the welkin blue

With all the songs I ever knew.

O time of rapture! time of song!

How swiftly glide thy days along

Down the current of the years,

Above the rocks of grief and tears!

'Tis wealth enough of joy for me

In summer time to simply be.