June 17

AT the midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I, mournfully—My year is at its prime, Yet bare lie my meadows, shorn before their time, In my scorched woodlands the leaves are turning brown. It is the hot midsummer, and the hay is down.

At the midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the streamlet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair— Hair that drooped like birch-boughs,—all in her simple gown. For it was midsummer,—and the hay was down.

At the midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she, a willing bride, into my breast: Low-piled the thunder-clouds had drifted to the west— Red-eyed out glared the sun, like knight from leaguer'd town, That eve in high midsummer, when the hay was down.

DINAH MULOCH

It is midsummer—all the hay is down; Close to her bosom press I dying eyes, Praying, "God shield thee till we meet in Paradise!" Bless her in Love's name who was my brief life's crown,— And I go at midsummer, when the hay is down.

LOVED HERE, AND THERE